


All We Lived For

by orphan_account



Series: The 104th [1]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Drugs, Gang Violence, Heavy Drinking, M/M, Smoking, the 104th is a gang and they kick major ass ok
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-11
Updated: 2015-05-27
Packaged: 2018-02-04 05:56:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 31,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1767973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trost is a piece-of-shit city, to say the least, and the only thing close to justice comes in the form of The 104th, a street gang led by a short, angry, neat-freak who calls himself Levi. It’s a black-and-white world and they’re black-and-white people: especially Jean, one of Levi's favorites. </p><p>When one of The 104th goes missing, Jean finds himself not only tangled up with a freckled do-gooder, but also involved in the middle of a scheme that could destroy the 104th from the inside out. It's up to him and Freckled Jesus to do everything to save it.</p><p>By the way? Their rival gang is a gang called The Titans. Go fucking figure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cruel World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because you're young, you're wild, you're free  
> You're dancin' circles around me  
> You're fucking crazy  
> Oh, you're crazy for me.
> 
> \- Lana Del Rey, Cruel World

There are plenty of places to get shitfaced, but The Wall is my favorite. 

It’s sketchy, dirty, dark. The windows are so fogged up with perspiration that you can’t see inside from the street. The bass is cranked up so loud that you can feel the black-tiled floor beneath your feet vibrating. No one cares how you got there. No one cares why. No questions asked, none answered. 

That’s the best part, the crass ignorance. The booze is just extra. 

Sasha is already dancing with Connie by the time I’ve paid for my first drink, twisted close against him as the lights blaze down in an array of colors, mixing and swirling with the dust motes through the hazy, sweaty air. “Come on, Jean,” she yells over the music, smiling wide. “Saturday nights don’t last forever!” 

It’s become a sacred, unbroken ritual of ours, every week at The Wall. Get drunk, shoot up, dance. If we’re lucky, we get laid. If we’re unlucky, we wake up covered in vomit with a killer migraine to match. Either way, it’s totally worth it, and so we always come back for more.

Connie twirls Sasha effortlessly; Sasha throws her head back and laughs, beautiful and fucked up and half-crazed. Not that I blame her. There’s only so much you can take in one week, before you need some kind of release. 

My own outlet usually involves some kind of alcohol and a one-night stand, and I don’t expect tonight to go any differently. After all, I’m not picky. A chick, a dude, both, whatever. They’re all the same when it comes right down to it. They want to have fun, I want a distraction, and as long as I can talk smooth and smile wide, we both get what we want. 

The bartender's seen me coming, apparently, and jabs his thumb towards the beer waiting for me. The tab goes to Levi, of course. He’s cool like that, figures that if we’re able to put up with his shit, that the least he can do is to pay for our hangovers. I pop the cap off and swivel back to the dance floor. 

And then I stop. 

‘Cause there is a black-haired, freckled boy dancing on the edge of the floor, and fuck yeah.

Fuck yeah, I’m getting that. 

Freckles is still dancing, sticking out like a sore thumb. It’s not his appearance that’s out of place- the way he’s moving his body is more than fine, believe me, tight jeans and loose blazer and all- but I know he’s out of his element. It’s in his eyes, and the tightness there, in the way that his corners of his mouth are curved down, in the crease between his eyebrows deepens when his forehead furrows. It’s my specialty, noticing the little things. 

__These kinds of kids? They’re my favorite kind: the rich Sina brats, the ones who come down to Trost for the weekend, who stumble into The Wall pretending to be bad boys for a few hours. These are the kinds I like, the one-night-stand, ignorant dicks who’ve never even _seen_ a dealer, but who still try so hard to be intimidating, who try to take control even when I’m easing them out of the only reality they’ve known._ _

__Boosting these kids is _so_ fucking satisfying._ _

__I head towards him, pushing past Connie and Sasha. Connie grabs my arm. “Hey dude, dance with us!”_ _

__Sasha catches my pointed gaze and snickers, prying Connie’s hands away from me and back onto her. “He’s busy, Con. Let him do his thing.”_ _

__Connie’s eyes find the direction I’m headed, and then he’s giggling too, eyebrows waggling. “Go get him, tiger.”_ _

__“Use protection!” Sasha cackles- _that's enough, thank you, Sasha-_ and Connie gives me a thumbs-up as I squeeze past them, disappearing into the throng of dancers. _ _

__He’s wandered from his original spot, but he’s all too easy to find. His hands swing out-of-sync, his eyes dart from the ground to the girl next to him. I join the floor’s rhythm again, falling into the beat of the bass, letting the crowd sweep him towards me, waiting._ _

__He’s three feet away. Two feet. Then one, and I move fast, turning on the spot, crashing directly into him, his arm tipping my beer sideways and all over my shirt._ _

__“Aw, shit!” I curse loudly. “Dude, seriously?”_ _

__It’s not his fault, but he takes the blame immediately and without question, the way his kind always does. “Oh, my god! I’m sorry, I didn’t see you-”_ _

__“Fuck, I’m drenched,” I complain, picking at my beer-soaked shirt; his hands fly up to his mouth, brown eyes widening._ _

__“I’m so sorry,” he gushes. “I didn’t mean to, honestly- oh, god, I feel completely terrible-”_ _

__The dancers have unconsciously cleared us a space in case I want to brawl it out, which is thoughtful, but unnecessary. I rub my forehead, adopting a resigned expression, and shake my head. “You know what? Don’t worry about it. It’s just a shirt, right?”_ _

__He worries his bottom lip in between his teeth, glancing at me nervously. “I _really_ am sorry,” he begins, but I wave his apology off. _ _

__“Listen, man, it’s fine. Just an accident, right?”_ _

__His eyes are still big and round, peering at me like I’m gonna tear his head off- which I’m not, of course. I’ve got different plans for him._ _

__“Hey,” I say, “you wanna make it up to me, yeah?”_ _

__He hesitates. Then nods, and I get right up close to him, hand touching his elbow, playing with the expensive fabric of his jacket._ _

__“Cool. Then dance with me.”_ _

__His expression is rapidly flickering in between his original guilt and dawning realization. “What?” he asks, gradually mixing himself up in things that guys like him were never meant to be mixed up in._ _

__I slide my hands around his waist. “Dance. With me. C’mon, I know you can. I was watching you before.”_ _

__He blinks rapidly. “You were watching me before,” he repeats dumbly._ _

__My thumb slips under his shirt, smooths over the skin just above his jeans. “Spilling beer all down his front? Crazy way to meet a guy,” I say breezily, and I can tell by the way his mouth falls open that he gets it._ _

__“You…you staged…”_ _

__“Dance with me,” I say, voice just low enough to make him lean forward in order hear me over the constant pounding of the music. His movements are stiff with nervous energy; my lips brush his ear and I can feel him tense. “Or are you gonna let me go to all this trouble for nothing?”_ _

__I’m not sure if he wants to laugh or run. Overall, he seems dazed. But when I link my fingers around the small of his back, he does nothing to refute me, and eventually he’s carried back into the beat and rhythm of the floor._ _

__His hands end up on my shoulders, somehow._ _

__He has freckles on the bridge of his nose, too._ _

__The song's at least over five minutes long. When it ends, he doesn’t move away._ _

__“Are we…square?” he asks, fingers gripping the tips of my shoulder blades._ _

__“We’re square,” I agree._ _

__He stays where he is._ _

__“You going anywhere?” I ask._ _

__“I don’t know,” he says. “Are you?”_ _

__And I know I’ve got him. All of him. He’s a pure-blooded Sina brat: get them in over their head and they’re hopelessly head over heels with the rush of adrenaline, unknowingly committed, willing to do anything, try anything-_ _

__But he turns his head away when I lean forward, and the kiss lands on his jaw._ _

__I pause, momentarily caught off-guard, then laugh. He flinches, and I grin. “Are you _scared,_ Freckles?” _ _

__When he stutters, I continue. “I’m not gonna slip anything in your glass, don’t worry. I’m not that kind of guy, you know, the ones your parents tell you about when they tuck you in at night.”_ _

__His mouth thins out at that, pouting at the corners. “It’s been a while since my parents tucked me in,” he objects, a little put-out. “Do I really look like a high school kid to you?”_ _

__I rake my gaze up and down his frame and when it lingers he blushes. “Maybe junior high,” I decide after a thorough inspection, teasing gently._ _

__“I’m flattered,” Freckles says flatly, shifting his weight self-consciously. “Look, I’m not trying to prove anything-”_ _

__“Scared?” I ask again, softly, my hand drifting to his hip, fingers curling there and tightening in his shirt._ _

__He bites his lip a second time, exhaling._ _

__“Don’t be.”_ _

__“I don’t…” he starts, and then stops, eyes dropping to the ground._ _

__“Come on,” I breathe into his ear, tugging him forward, lifting his chin. “Come on.”_ _

__And he bows his head and gives in, my mouth pressed against his._ _

__\---_ _

__Let’s get one thing clear and out of the way: there is no such thing as a gentleman in The Wall, much less the entire city of Trost._ _

__And whatever this guy is used to, this is not gonna be that._ _

__I lead him past the bar and squeeze through a hallway and ignore his stammered questions and guide him into the back room, shutting the door behind us with the weight of his body pinned against it._ _

__He tastes like shitty beer, and smells like clean laundry._ _

__“Woah,” says Freckles, trying to breathe as I run my hands through his hair, lips fixed on his collarbone. “I just…woah.”_ _

__It’s nothing I haven’t heard before- they’re words spoken in admiration, usually- but Freckles, for some reason, isn’t as relaxed as most of the Sina kids I pick up. I thought he’d at least drop the awkward manners once I started hiking up his shirt. When I kiss him too hard and he yields too fast, my chin collides against his painfully and he’s apologizing like the world’s ending and it’s his fault._ _

__“Sorry- _sorry._ Sorry, that was me-” _ _

__My hands tug at the back of his hairline, tilting his mouth back towards mine, and that shuts him up for a few seconds. But then I slide the shirt up over his arms and head and he’s blinking at me, bare-chested, mouth half-open and lungs short-winded._ _

__“Um,” he says. “Um, we’re…kinda going pretty fast, yeah?”_ _

__“Didn’t anyone tell you?” I bare my teeth in a smile and glance up at him from beneath my lids, breath ghosting over his neck. “You’re in Trost, sweetheart.”_ _

__There’s a gasping laugh that hitches towards the end as my fingers slide down his back and then slide lower. “Yeah,” he stammers. “Yeah, I guess I am.”_ _

__I can hear him swallow, feel the rapid beat of his heart, taste the sweat on his skin, and then, suddenly, the realization hits me like a sack of bricks._ _

___He’s shaking._ _ _

__I lean back._ _

__“Hey, Freckles,” I say. “Do you wanna stop?”_ _

__He breathes in, breathes out. I lift my hands and run them through his hair again, slower this time, and his eyes find mine and stop there, big and sweet and chocolate brown._ _

__“Freckles,” I repeat. “You wanna stop?”_ _

__“No,” he says weakly. “No, it’s fine.”_ _

__I take my hands off of him like he’s white-hot. “You wanna stop.”_ _

__“I do?”_ _

__“Yeah, you do.”_ _

__He exhales, chest heaving, and clears his throat. “Yeah. I…do.”_ _

__I put my back up against the wall and slide down to the ground, sitting cross-legged. “It’s okay,” I say, patting the ground next to me and watching him follow suit. “I’m that bad, huh?”_ _

__I’m just kidding but he doesn’t catch the lightness in my tone, and his voice shoots up an octave in protest. “No! You’re fine. I mean, better than fine, obviously- okay, no, it’s just-”_ _

__“Freckles,” I say, serious to the core. “Are you a virgin?”_ _

__Blood rushes to his face faster than Jaeger can swing a right hook._ _

__“No,” he says, defiantly. “I am _not.”__ _

__“I wouldn’t be surprised. You wouldn’t be the first-”_ _

__“I said I wasn’t!”_ _

__“Yeah, yeah, I believe you.” I tilt my head back against the wall and study the ceiling, and silence settles into the space between us._ _

__He clears his throat at last._ _

__“It’s been a while,” he admits._ _

__I raise my eyebrows. “How long are we talking?”_ _

__He glances down. Back up. Clears his throat._ _

__“Hey?”_ _

__“Um,” Freckles says. “Five years.”_ _

__“Holy shit.”_ _

__“Yeah.”_ _

__“Holy _shit,_ dude!”_ _

__“I heard you the first time,” he tells me, but he’s smiling a little._ _

__I fish a pack of cigarettes out of my pocket and offer one to him; he declines with a short shake of his head. “What,” I say, flicking my finger over the lighter and bringing the flame up. “You get religious?”_ _

__“No, it’s not that-”_ _

__“Traumatic accident?”_ _

__“Not really-”_ _

__“Does it…" I gesture. "Work?”_ _

__He’s blushing again. “Yes,” he proclaims loudly, covering his face with his hands. “Thank you, yes, it does.”_ _

__I suck in a lungful of smoke and trailing it out through my nose. “C’mon, Freckles. Five years- how come?”_ _

__“You’d make fun of me.”_ _

__“Never,” I swear; the look he gives me is beyond skeptical._ _

__“I…” he closes his eyes. “It was this guy. The, uh...the only guy, really.”_ _

__I tap the ashes of my cigarette onto the floor. “And?”_ _

__“And…” Freckles sighs, casting his gaze around the room reluctantly. “I don’t know. It was supposed to be forever, and I ended it.”_ _

__“His loss, my gain,” I say, just to mess with him, and he blushes again._ _

__“No, but honestly…oh, you’ll think I’m an idiot.” He exhales sharply, then turns to me, fast. “I have this pre-conceived idea of love, okay? That it should be...beautiful. Not perfect, but…worth it all. Worth everything.”_ _

__Jesus Christ. He’s a fucking poet._ _

__And I’m listening._ _

__“I mean, that’s what really makes you realize that it’s worth fighting for, right?” he continues earnestly. “When you think of living without them and…it feels like you can’t breathe. That’s how you know that you have to stick with it, get past the bad to live to see the good. And I guess…” He smiles at me, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes and it’s tired, kinda sad. “I thought about living without him, and I just kept breathing easy. And after that…I couldn’t do it anymore, couldn’t look him in the eyes and tell him that I couldn't imagine living without him. Maybe that makes me a jerk-”_ _

__“It doesn’t,” I blurt, and he gazes at me with those huge fucking doe eyes- _fuck._ “I mean…I get it. Kinda. A little. You know. I can see, uh, the general direction of where you’re coming from, in like, a ten-mile radius or something. So.”_ _

__His eyes are still fixed on me and I take another drag from the cigarette to throw the weight of them off of my shoulders._ _

__“So,” he repeats, mocking me lightly, smiling that sad half-smile. “Well. I guess we’re all a little more than we pretend to be, huh?”_ _

__He kisses me first, this time, throwing his leg over my waist and taking my face in his hands and it’s simple and chaste and easy, and everything that The Wall is not, and everything that I am not, but everything that I used to be._ _

__And he doesn’t stop._ _

__The cigarette drops from my fingers, at some point- maybe when I let him pin my wrists up against the bricks behind us- and I forget about it. I forget about the music pounding through the thin wall, too, and the way he’d trembled, before, under me._ _

__I wonder if he thinks this is beautiful, a quick fuck in the back room of a dirty club._ _

__I hope so._ _

__I think he might be one of the few who deserves that._ _


	2. Heaven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heaven is inside you  
> Heaven when I ride you  
> Heaven, do you want me?  
> Is heaven just in my mind?
> 
> \- I Monster, Heaven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm actually writing more than I had planned to write, so this might go over the original 10 chapters I had scheduled out. Hope you guys are enjoying this!

I don’t think I’ll ever see him again. 

The Sina type never come back- it’s nothing against me, and I don’t blame them for it. It’s just that they live their lives the way they speed down the interstate, careless and reckless in their cherry red sports cars, and I’m just another one of the streetlights lining the curb, flashing yellow before receding into the view of their taillights.

I’m a 24 hour addiction. I’m there in the moment but I don’t stick in their minds. I don’t matter. I’ve never mattered. And that’s okay. There’s less to lose that way.

Levi has us running off our feet the morning after and I hardly have time to catch my breath, let alone think. We’ve always had shit to do but for some reason business is busier than usual, lately, and there’s a load of boosters coming in and they’re coming in quick. 

“Who’s in charge of the cargo Sunday morning?” Levi presses, feet up on the table with all of us gathered in front of him. It’s directed at no one in particular but Eren Jaeger jumps in like he and Levi are the only ones in the room. And I mean, I get it- Levi’s the closest thing most of the 104th has to a father- but _really?_ Jaeger would lick his boots clean if he asked.

The 104th is the only home I’ve ever known, and the only home I care enough to keep. No one really knows the reason why the name was chosen; there’s a shitload of myths and stories about it. Sasha says it’s because Levi single-handedly took out 104 men in a standoff, and I kinda like that version, even if Levi scoffs every time it’s mentioned. 

There’s thirty-one of us, counting Levi, and yeah, it’s small for one of the Underground gangs, but we’re fucking lethal, okay? Just as lethal as the Titans. Who cares if they’ve got us outnumbered? Who cares if they’ve got us outgunned? It doesn’t matter that they outdo us in…well, pretty much everything. Or that, you know, we’ve been steadily losing gang territory to them for three years now.

Man… _fuck_ those guys.

Okay, anyway. The boosters coming in on Sunday morning.

“They're unloading at Petra’s at 300 hours,” Eren says earnestly, leaning forward to relay the schedule. “Jean and I are bringing it back to base two hours later.” 

“Why the time gap?” 

Eren scowls. “There’s a scheduled Legion patrol in between. We can’t avoid them on the streets, so we’re laying low until they piss off.” 

Levi rubs the bridge of his nose, the only indication of his annoyance. “I thought the Legion had stopped patrols in this region.” 

“They had a change of plans,” Eren replies, just as bitter as Levi. 

“And we know this how?”

There’s a pause, in which every single head turns toward the empty chair at the end of the table. 

“All right,” says Levi quietly, “all right.” 

And just like that, no more questions asked. 

That empty chair is a bit of a sore subject. Mostly because Armin Arlert is supposed to be sitting in it.

He , “Arlert” to most people, “Armin” to Eren, is a short little blond with big blue eyes and an crazy love for classic novels…and he doesn’t show up to meetings. Not because he’s an asshole or anything- really, it’s the opposite. He’s one of the sweetest guys I know. Or...used to be. He was always happy to help, back then, always wanting to be useful, to add to the group. Eren used to say it was because he was afraid of being a burden- which was ridiculous, considered that he's smart as hell and the best hacker the 104th has ever had.

But he doesn’t show up to meetings. Not anymore. 

He’s tired of people staring, I suppose. 

It was supposed to be a regular patrol, the morning he and Thomas geared up and set out. But they didn’t boost up before and they were vulnerable and halfway through they got ambushed.

Thomas was killed, and Armin was taken, and fuck… 

Fuck those guys. 

The Titans messed with us for weeks after his capture, like it wasn’t enough knowing that they had him. They called from payphones that we couldn’t trace fast enough, gave us false locations for fake trade-offs, spray-painted his name on the sides of buildings in our territory, left tapes of his terrified pleas on street corners for us to find. 

Eren was furious over the phone calls and distraught when the vandalism was uncovered. But it was the last one, I think, that really got to him. Levi played the tape and Eren heard Armin screaming and it just got to him. Messed him up. He wouldn’t look anyone in the eyes. Wouldn’t talk. Didn’t eat. 

But holy shit, did he boost up. Scarred his arms real bad, to the point where Mikasa was begging him to stop. Levi got involved, tried to take the needles away, ordered him to quit. That was enough, he said, there was no point to drowning grief with drugs, he said. 

Eren told him flat out, the corners of his eyes blood-red as he injected the next booster into his forearm, that it had nothing to do with grieving. 

I guess vengeance has always been Eren’s biggest motivator. 

He took off the morning after his fight with Levi, and no one saw him for about a week. And then one day he came back, Armin slung across his back, both of them covered in blood. The next morning there was a report of an unknown assailant who had murdered ten Titans and piled their bodies in Trost's main square. 

No one in the 104th ever asked if it was Eren. Eren never claimed responsibility for the attack. 

But everyone knew. 

Eren refused to leave Armin’s bedside until he regained the ability to speak, to look him in the eyes, to function. Armin had night terrors for a year and a half when Eren wasn’t within arms reach. 

And Eren got over it. Kind of. But Armin’s…yeah, he’s different.

A different person. 

And he’s never at meetings.

There’s a reason we go to The Wall. I said it before- there’s only so much you can take in one week, before you need some kind of release. 

I don’t wanna talk about this anymore. 

\---

Saturday night comes around again, like it always does, and we head for The Wall, like we always do.

“Right,” says Sasha, linking her arm through Connie’s as we move through line towards club doors. “So Con and I were thinking about boosting up tonight. Are you in, Jean?”

I shrug. It’s been too long since we shot up together- recreationally, that is. “Yeah, I’m in.” 

“We’ve got extra,” Connie chimes in, beaming. “And I brought a couple more needles-”

“So find a buddy!” Sasha finishes, bouncing up and down like a teenager. “Shouldn’t be too hard for you, Jean,” she adds, nudging me in the side. “They practically fling themselves at you. I think it's the undercut- I _told_ you you'd look good with one, Connie, didn't I tell him?”

Connie shrugs at me, snorting a laugh, and I fight the urge to roll my eyes- then the doors swing open, and we’re inside, lights and music and sweat and grime and freckles.

Wait. 

_Freckles?_

“Hey,” says Connie suddenly. “Isn’t that your guy from last week?” 

He’s standing in the middle of the floor and he looks up when he feels my eyes on him, a spark of recognition lighting up his expression and a smile blossoming over his face. 

“Hey!” he calls, and he’s waving me over and Sasha is pushing me forward while Connie giggles and so much for our plans, I guess, because then I’m in front of him and he’s grabbing my hands- “hey,” he says again, quieter. 

“Hey,” I say back. 

And we’re dancing. 

Or, rather…awkwardly swaying. Mostly because I’m still staring at him. I can’t turn bad-boy charm on and off like a fucking light switch, sorry, and I’m thrown, caught off-guard...by him. 

“I took you by surprise.” Freckles searches my face, guessing. “You didn’t expect to see me here, did you?” 

I relax enough to flash a grin. “I’m an open book, huh?”

“Yes," he says, simply. "You are.” 

And I'm thrown. Again.

"I...so- uh-" I clear my throat, try to find my way back into the upper hand. "This is either a crazy coincidence...or you're here to pay me back for that drink you spilled."

It's not my best, but it moves us away from what was quickly becoming a conversation about me. Freckles swallows and fixes his eyes on his shoes- so his bashful, modest front hasn’t worn off, not even after our _immodest_ night in the back room. “I…” he starts, and then glances up, quirking a smile. “I came back, you know. On Sunday. And Monday. And Tuesday, and-”

“Okay, Freckles, I get it.” I put up a hand to stop him before he starts listing off every day of the week. “You missed me that much, huh?” 

He blushes. I fucking knew he would. 

“We’re only here on Saturdays,” I tell him. “Me, and Sasha, and Connie.”

“Your friends?”

I grimace. “More like family, really-”

Freckles is still smiling at me.

I quirk an eyebrow. “You always like this?” 

“Like what?”

“You know...Cloud Nine happy,” I say, gesturing towards his beam. 

Blushing. Again. Jesus Christ, he’s a regular tomato. 

“Oh, I’m just-” he stammers. “I’m just glad to see you. I thought maybe-”

I’m smirking at him and he’s blushing like a motherfucker. 

He tries again. “I just thought that maybe…” 

“Are we gonna make out?” I ask. “Or are you gonna spend the next thirty minutes trying to string a sentence togeth-”

Woah. 

_Fuck, that’s supposed to be_ his _line!_

But I can’t help it. He’s kissing me with his hands wound tight in my collar, and woah.

“I,” he says breathlessly, in between kisses. “Thought about you. A lot.”

He kisses the side of my neck just below my jaw, and woah. 

“Hah,” I manage, clutching at his arms. “You did?” _Thrown. Caught off-guard. What the fuck is wrong with me?_

“I-” he draws back to catch his breath. “I thought maybe, for old time’s sake...”

“For old time’s sake,” I repeat, smiling slightly. There's no question of what he wants- even if he's the first to come back. “Okay, Freckles. Come on.” 

His hand is sweaty and warm in mine. He lets me lead him past the dancers, past the bar. “Where are we going?” 

“Don’t worry,” I croon, slipping my arm around his waist. “You trust me, yeah?”

He doesn’t answer that. 

\---

“I found a buddy,” I announce, swinging the rust-crusted back door to The Wall open. Sasha and Connie are leaning against the alley wall, Sasha snickering at something Connie’s just said, but they both look up as I lead Freckles forward. 

“Hiya, buddy,” says Connie. Sasha gives a half-wave, smothering the last giggles of her laugh behind her free hand. 

“Sasha,” I say, pointing accordingly, “thinks she’s funny, and Connie is a dumb motherfucker.” 

“Thanks, Jean,” Connie replies dryly. “You’re quite a character yourself. Let’s get started already, yeah?”

“Hell yeah.”

Sasha reaches into her bag and she brings out the needles while Connie unzips his own pack, setting the boosters on the cement. My pulse quickens just looking at them. Sasha fills the syringe with one of the boosters and hands it to Connie; Connie takes it and hands it down to me. I roll it between my fingers, the liquid inside glass-clear and calling my name. Christ, it’s gonna be good to shoot up again, to feel safe, to be able to _breathe-_

“Um,” says Freckles, nervously. 

Sash and Connie look at him expectantly. He’s got his own booster in his hands, but he’s staring at it like it’s gonna come to life and bite him.

“Oh shit,” I realize, and feel like an idiot- I was so caught up in the moment that I forgot. “He’s never been boosted before, have you, Freckles?” 

He looks at me, eyes wide. “No.”

“Right. Look,” I add, “before we do anything, I’m gonna explain what this is gonna be like. I don’t want you freaking out.” 

He nods, eyes trained on me obediently. Jesus, this guy.

“The first thing you need to know,” I tell him, “is that they’re out of this fucking world.” 

The stuff started out as a medical steroid, literal vials of energy for patients too weak to function, but that didn’t last very long. Once Trost got their hands on them, they were hot-topic of the Underground. The things are insanely good at what they do, and what they do is fucking _awesome._ For gang warfare and for recreation- it’s the dosage that makes all the difference. 

“There’s three categories,” I tell him. “The first booster is what we call Rush- basically, your brain goes at twice the pace of a normal person and your reflexes are crazy responsive.”

Freckles nods, gaze flickering down to the needle and back up again. 

“You’re gonna feel good,” I continue. “You’re gonna move fast, think faster.”

“You feel like a god,” Connie adds. “Probably why Jaeger uses it so often.” 

“Who's Jaeger?” asks Freckles, puzzled, and I frown at Connie. 

“Not important. The second booster is called Moxie-”

“It’s the shit,” Sasha interrupts cheerfully, and I turn my scowl towards her. 

“Only because it’s your favorite.” I pick up another needle. “Users go for days without sleep without crashing, like some kind of crazy, hard-core caffeine drug. Sash loves it- the only downside is that she’s fucking starving afterward.”

“She craves french fries,” Connie says to Freckles, “she’ll talk your god-damn ear off complaining until you get her some-”

“That was like, _one time!”_

 _"Sasha."_ I pinch the bridge of my nose. These two are the least impressive people ever; I’m pretty sure Freckles would’ve called this whole thing off twenty minutes ago if he wasn’t so fucking naive. “The last booster is the one I usually take. Been hooked for years. We call it Wire: get it in your bloodstream and you’re hyper-aware, scary sensitive. You notice _everything-_ the density of the air, a person breathing halfway across the room.”

“It’s a method of control,” says Connie. 

And that's why I love it.

“You wanna do this?” I ask Freckles. His face is pale and he’s holding himself very still. 

“I can only take one, right?” 

I nod. “Take more than one on your first time and you’ll be in the hospital for the next three weeks.” 

Freckles inhales slowly, exhales slower.

“Hey,” I say, leaning forward and resting my hand on his thigh. “No one’s gonna make you do anything, okay?” 

“Okay,” he murmurs. “Okay.” 

I start to back off, to give him space, but he grabs my hand before I can move away. 

“Show me how,” he says. 

\--- 

Things go fast after that. Like photos, like snapshots. 

The needle pricking my skin. The empty syringe.

The look on his face when the Wire kicks in. Bliss. Ecstasy. Like he’s in heaven.

When he starts running his hands over me, I think maybe _I_ am. 

Connie and Sasha leave us alone together, there in the alleyway, and things go fast. 

Snapshots. 

It’s dark, as dark as it was in the back room the week before, but the Wire puts me on red alert and it’s incredible, he’s incredible. I can just make out his face, the whites of his eyes, the dusting of freckles on his throat as he tips his head back, breath ghosting over my skin, the sound he makes when I touch him vibrating in my ears and I can feel it, I can _feel_ him- 

“Mar-” he gasps out. “Marco.”

He’s heavy, heavier than he looks, his eyelashes brushing the tips of his cheeks and his skin hot and smooth and every nerve in my body is lit up, on fire. “H-huh?” 

“Marco. My name- my name is Marco.” 

“Jean,” I manage. “I’m Jean.” 

“Jean,” he repeats, sounding it out, and then his words waver as he arches against me. _“Jean-”_

Snapshots. 

When I wake up in the morning, back aching, head pounding, mouth dry, he’s still got his arms slung around my shoulders. 

“You have a tattoo,” he mumbles blearily. 

I kiss the top of his head, bury my nose in his hair. “Yes, I do.” 

“’Says _104th,”_ Marco adds, voice still raspy. "Two crossed swords underneath." 

“Yes, it does.”

He nuzzles into my chest. “You’re in a gang,” he sighs. 

“Yes, I am.”

There’s a pause. I turn my head, meet his still-sleepy gaze. 

“You okay with that, Freckles?” 

“Marco,” he reminds me. 

Like I’d forget.


	3. Underdog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tell me if you're down, throw your weapons to the ground  
> Keep myself right on this train  
> Hey bird, you're on the wire, sold yourself for another one  
> Keep myself riding on this train
> 
> Kasabian, Underdog

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone on the 104th has one of these shirts. 
> 
> http://rlv.zcache.com/armin_protection_squad_tshirts-ra158d8d6f50c49e2963457caff0c55a2_804gy_512.jpg

I get back to the 104th an hour before I’ve gotta take off for Petra’s, so there’s time for a shower and some food before I start looking around for Eren. Both combined, hopefully, will clear the rest of the gritty headache building behind my eyes.

The 104th base is as close to a maze as you can get. The whole outer level is old brick, the mortar yellow and crusty, but the interior has been completely redone: metal and glass, built like our very own Labyrinth. It’s something that I love about it, the way that the hallways twist and wind and cut through each other like a puzzle. The structure itself was a medical facility, constructed and designed by some crazy-ass architect who thought it’d be fun to make it ridiculously hard to navigate.

When boosters began running rampant and Trost fell into decay, the facility was one of the first things to go. Too expensive. Too hard to maintain. The patients were moved to Sina’s enormous castle of a hospital, and by the time Levi stormed through the doors with the beginnings of the 104th, the only people left to oppose him were squatters and drunk, homeless guys who would rather piss off than try and fight off boosted gangs with machine guns. 

I slip on a leather jacket over my shirt and squirt some gel into my hair, then head to the kitchen. Sasha’s on duty, swiveling between piling plates high with food and managing whatever she’s got in the frying pan over the cheap stove. 

“Mmm,” I inhale, breathing in the aroma as I grab one of the plates she sets down. “Smells good.”

“I traded with the Garrison,” Sasha says brightly, mentioning one of the lower-class gangs that’s more into stealing from Sina than gaining territory. “Gave them a couple of boosters and they handed over the _really_ good stuff- so hashbrowns and eggs for you. Hope you’re over your headache, you boosted pretty high yesterday.” 

"Give it a few minutes, I'll be fine." I take a bite and try not to drool. “You know...I always remember why we keep you around when it’s your turn to cook, Sash.”

She hits me with the spatula and little pieces of egg go flying everywhere; Annie Leonhardt is behind us and gets nailed with chunks of yellow. “You’re in a good mood,” Sasha notes, ignoring the lasers of death that Annie is shooting out of her ice-blue eyes. “I haven’t seen you smiling like that for days.” 

“Yeah, well...” I shovel in more food as she fiddles with the flame over the stove. “Getting boosted _and_ laid in one night, and good food the morning after? Can’t say I’ve got anything to complain about.” 

There’s a scoff from next to me; Annie glances over her shoulder as she moves towards Reiner’s table. “Tch,” she mutters. “It _is_ still early.”

I grin at her with a mouth full of eggs; she crinkles her nose in disgust. “Yeah- too early to hear your commentary, Leonhardt.”

“Don’t talk with your mouth open, Kirstein, you're disgusting.” But the amused gleam in her eye takes the edge off of her cold façade. “By the way, why are you up at all? Don’t you usually refuse to move until someone threatens to pull you out of bed by the feet?” 

“I’m picking up the supply today.” I scoop the rest of the hashbrowns up into my mouth with my fingers, and Annie rolls her eyes. “And speaking of that pick-up, I gotta find Eren- we’re tag-teaming. Any of you seen him?” 

Annie shrugs. “You could ask Mikasa,” Sasha offers. 

“Nah, she’s out doing rounds for Levi. Reiner, what about you?” 

He’s sitting with his back to us, blond and bulky, his hands resting underneath his chin. I wait for his answer, but he doesn’t respond whatsoever.

“Hey, Reiner.” I try again, with the same result. _“Reiner!”_

He jumps when I raise my voice, spinning around with his eyebrows raised in surprise. “Oh, Jean. Sorry, man…did you say something?” 

“Yeah.” I frown at him. He’s a pretty observant guy; it’s not like him to space out. “You know where Eren is?” 

“You’re looking for Eren?” He looks worried, now, and I squint at him, trying to pick apart the reasoning behind his concern. 

“Of course I am. We’ve got a pick-up to take care of? At Petra’s?” 

Reiner exhales. “Right. I forgot…I haven’t seen him, though. Sorry.”

“No biggie.” I tilt my head slightly, still a little unsettled. “Everything okay, big guy?” 

“Yeah.” He works up a small smile. “It’s just…Jean, if you see Bertholdt, can you tell him I’m looking for him? He…” Reiner rubs his forehead. “I talked to him Friday night and I haven’t seen him since.”

_Ah-ha._

It makes sense at once: his miserable expression, his unusual silence, Bertholdt’s absence. The two of them grew up together; they’re nearly inseparable. They use the same boosters, schedule their rounds together…the only time I’ve ever seen one of them without the other is after they’ve been in a fight.

They don’t get in arguments very often, but when they do, Bertholdt usually avoids Reiner for days, anxiously skirting around everyone until Reiner breaks and apologizes. Their last falling out lasted an entire week, and by the time it was over, Reiner had been reduced to a sweet-talking, puddle-y mess, clinging to Bertl like there was no tomorrow. 

Hah. He might look tough, but he’s a big softie. 

I clap Reiner on the back as I pass him on my way out. “I’ll tell him. Hang in there, bro. Sash, Annie, I’ll see you around.” 

The others call out their own goodbyes, Sasha waving with her spatula, Annie nodding once. 

Reiner bows his head, and clasps his hands over the table. Before I close the door, a thought occurs to me that is both ridiculous and highly unlikely.

But it looked like he was praying. 

\---

There’s really only one other place that Eren could be this early in the morning if he’s not in the mess hall, and that’s with Armin. 

Which is fine. It’s all fine. Except for the part where retrieving Eren requires me to actually see and communicate and make _small talk_ with Armin. 

_Nerves of steel, Kirstein. You can do this._

The door to his room is shut up tight, of course. No one comes over this way anymore, unless they really need to. I take a deep breath, then knock. 

“It’s open,” comes the immediate reply.

_Nerves of steel._ The hinges creak as I turn the doorknob. 

I don’t see him at first. There’s this huge piece of tech equipment on one of the desks, and it’s big and bulky and blocking him almost entirely. When he speaks again I glimpse the top of his head, wisps of blond hair from around all the metal scraps.

“Been a while, Jean.” 

I wipe my palms on the sides of my shirt. “Yeah,” I say, trying to keep my voice light. “Yeah, hey, Arlert. You know, I meant to stop by a few days ago, but things got busy…”

There’s a soft clunk and Armin’s hand appears around the corner of the machine he’s working on, dropping a screwdriver onto the counter. “I get it,” he says. 

My voice shoots up a little. “No, I mean- like, there were a bunch of drop-offs scheduled, and stuff, and then Levi had us cleaning like crazy-”

The squeak of wheels, and then he rolls himself away from the machine, bright blue gaze fixed rigidly on me. 

“I get it,” he repeats. 

His legs are twisted and bent unnaturally in the wheelchair beneath him; the scars that tear across his face contort his expression, pulling the left corner of his mouth down and tugging at the flesh beneath the corresponding eye. It’s ugly, it’s awful, it’s what the Titans have done to Armin and every time I see it I understand Eren’s thirst for blood just a little more. 

Stare, or look away: there’s only two ways to deal with it. 

I drop my eyes. 

“You’re looking for Eren,” Armin says flatly. It’s not a question. “He’s in the back room, you can wait for him out here.” 

“Thanks, man.” But I can’t even meet his eyes and I fucking hate it. 

He pushes himself back to the desk and picks up the screwdriver again. I shift my weight, chewing on my lower lip. “So,” I say, just to break the awkward silence. “Uh…what’re you working on?”

Armin doesn’t raise his head. “Radio transmitter. Levi wants to see if I can get it working- if so, we’ll be able to expand with less communication issues.” 

“He’s thinking about expanding?” That doesn’t make sense to me. We’ve been pushing back at our shrinking borders for what seems like years. “Wouldn’t it be kind of weird for us to go on the offensive right now? We’re not really in any shape to-” 

“I’m just following orders,” Armin interrupts. “Go ahead and interrogate Levi if you want, but I think I trust him enough to refrain from questioning his decisions on _repairs.”_

He’s so angry. He was never angry, before. The newfound bitterness in his voice is something I don’t think I’ll ever really get used to. 

“There’s a chair if you want to sit.” 

“That’s okay. I’ll stand.” 

“Can’t bear to be on my level?” 

_Jesus Christ._

My words stick in my throat, a mixture of frustration and anger as well as pity. “Fucking _hell,_ Arlert-”

The door in the back slams open. 

“Hey, Armin,” Eren calls, running his hands through his sleep-mussed hair, clothes wrinkled and eyes still blurry. “Have you seen that gray shirt that I was wearing last week? You know, the one with that bird emblem on it or whatever…”

He trails off when he sees me. 

Then-- “ah,” he says, brightening. “Morning, asshole.”

“Morning, fuckface,” I respond in kind. 

Eren snorts; Armin clears his throat.

“You ruined that shirt, Eren,” he says, and Jaeger’s eyes slide back towards him. “It got caught on barbed wire, remember? Krista said she’d try and see if she could patch it up.”

“Right, right.” Eren yawns and stuffs his hands in his pockets. “All right. Guess Horseface and I should head out…I’ll see you later, yeah?” 

He moves towards me, but Armin catches ahold of his wrist. Eren’s brow furrows as he glances down, a question on his lips, then stops short.

There’s no words spoken or anything. Eren hates that sappy stuff, that _stay safe, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do_ bullshit. Instead Armin just links his fingers with Eren’s, and squeezes his hand. 

Eren squeezes back. 

And then he’s next to me, slapping the back of my head a little harder than he needs to. “It's rude to stare,” he snaps. "Get a move on already.” 

I shoot my mouth off, of course, something about how I was the one waiting on _him,_ but Eren’s not up to taking the bait today, apparently. 

“Fuckin’ hate this partner-up crap,” he grumbles instead, yanking some of the wrinkles out of his sleeves. “Why can’t you just go get them yourself?” 

“It was Levi’s idea to do pick-up tag-teams,” I remind him, drawing a scowl out of him. “Anyway, it won’t take long. Petra’s place isn’t even ten miles from here; we’ll take the subway and be done with it in an hour, easy.”

Eren quirks an eyebrow my way. “What the fuck happened to make you optimistic at five in the morning?” 

I smirk. “Got laid.” 

“Oh, congrats,” says Eren, showing his teeth in his feral version of a grin. “Who was it, another Sina whore?”

“Something like that.”

“Figures. You like 'em stupid.” 

“Hey,” I say, feeling weirdly defensive. “He’s might be from Sina, but he’s not stupid, okay?” 

“Yeah, whatever. As long as he’s good at what he does, right?” Eren holds the door open for me, and we step out into Trost’s pollution-hazed morning streets. “Either way, you’re probably gonna crash later, and hard. So whoever this dude is that you scored with, I hope he was worth it.”

“Twice over,” I answer, and if I’m smirking again, well. 

I can’t help it.

\--- 

The subway is pretty empty when we get on. The work rush hasn’t started yet, but we still see some of the usuals catching an early ride. There’s the construction workers, hard hats rusting and work gloves resting in their laps, and next to them the miners, faces gaunt and aging. The Underground girls sit in a small group towards the back, mousy hair held up with rubber bands and white dresses turning gray with overuse; they ride the metro all the way to Sina, taking jobs as cheap nannies or cooks. 

Eren and I take our spot near the doors, swaying with the soft pull-push of the car roaring down the rails. No one says anything- there’s a couple of rules about riding on the Trost subway, and the most important one is that you stay away from making conversation, much less eye contact, while you’re riding. You don’t look down, unless you wanna get mugged, and don’t look up, unless you wanna get punched. Staring at your shoes tells everyone you’re not paying attention, and raising your eyes to the ceiling makes you look pretentious. If there’s one thing that the Underground hates, it’s arrogance.

That being said, Eren and I keep our eyes fixed on the windows. 

Another stop is called out, and the brakes squeal as the train slows. A couple of the construction workers rise to their feet, stamping out muscles that have fallen asleep and making their way towards the exit. _“Doors opening,”_ a quiet, robotic female voice issues from the speakers. _“Stand back to allow passengers to exit and enter the train…”_

Eren leans over until his mouth is next to my ear. “Jean,” he whispers excitedly. “I’m just _itching_ to jump.” 

I turn my head, and with just one glance I can telI that he’s got _that_ look, the one that he gets when he’s high, where his eyes light up and his smile teeters on the brink of crazy. Well, who knows? Maybe he _did_ already shoot up- it wouldn’t be the first time, and it definitely wouldn’t be the earliest. 

“Eren,” I warn, all the same. “Not today.” 

He whines pathetically. The lights overhead flicker in our car and I squint, trying to see if the corners of his eyes are actually red. “We’ll only be a _little_ late. And it’ll be fun, I promise."

"Are you boosted?"

Eren ignores my question. "C’mon, when’s the last time you went jumping?” 

It has been a while, come to think of it. And the offer does sound kind of nice. But…

“Petra will freak if we’re not there on time,” I counter. “It’s not a good idea, Eren. We’ll have to ride the metro all the way back if we miss our stop. Anyway, Levi will tear us a new one if he finds out. You know that, Eren. Right? _Eren?”_

Eren is staring out the window again, his grin wild and absolutely dangerous. “We’ve got two stops before we get anywhere near Petra’s,” he says. “I’m jumping. Fuck yeah, I’m jumping.” 

“Eren, _don’t-”_ I hiss, reaching out grab at his arm, but he’s already twisting away, palm flat against the metro’s door, fingers tapping like crazy. The lights from a passing subway blaze towards us, flooding our car with light as Eren turns his head towards me, and when I see his face, my heart sinks. 

The whites of his eyes are scarlet. 

Oh, shit. 

He’s so boosted, and I’m so fucked. 

Eren straight-out laughs at my expression. “I shot up before we left,” he cackles. “Armin doesn't notice, they don't kick in until I'm gone. I’ve been wanting to jump for _weeks,_ Kirstein-”

“I can’t jump without a booster!”

“I brought you one.”

“Eren-”

“Let’s jump!” 

I stagger slightly as we screech to a stop. _“Doors opening. Stand back…”_

“Let’s jump,” Eren repeats, and the doors open and he bounds out, leaving me grabbing at the empty space he was a second ago. 

“Eren- shit, fuck, fuck, _fuck!”_

I don’t have a choice. I follow. 

He lopes along the tracks, shoulders tense, fingers curled in. He’s hunting- I’ve seen it before countless times, whether we’re jumping the metro or roaming back alleyways in territory that, technically speaking, isn’t ours. His profile is sharp, his blood-shot eyes darting from rail to rail. “Eren!” I call, exasperated. I’m supposed to be on a pick-up, not babysitting my gang leader’s protégé. 

“Next train in thirty seconds,” he says, matter-of-fact, handing me a booster. “Get ready.” 

“This is dumb,” I remind him. But I take the syringe and roll up my sleeve all the same.

“Follow my lead, I’ve always been better at this than you.”

“Really, really dumb.” 

“Knees bent, hands out.”

“You’re an idiot when you’re high.”

I toss the empty syringe to the ground; he flashes me another shit-eating grin. “I’m reckless,” he says. “There’s a difference.”

The train’s horn blares. The ground beneath our feet begins to tremble.

“Ten seconds,” says Eren. 

I feel a nervous swoop in my belly. “The booster’s not gonna kick in.”

“It will,” he responds, all confidence. “Eventually.”

_“Eren-”_

The horn trumpets its arrival, headlights blinding, and when it whips around the corner, Eren yells. 

“Trust me or don't- but if you're gonna go, go _now!”_

Jumping the metro is probably one of the least intelligent things that I have ever gotten myself into. And it’s also a part of the104th that I will never really be able to give up. 

The subway tracks are lined two to each side, four trains in total. They pass each other going opposite directions at high speeds every minute or so, and jumping the metro? It’s basically tempting fate, adrenaline-fueled flirting with death.

You jump off of the platform, and grab onto the back of the nearest train while it’s hurtling past at rapid speeds.

Like I said. Flirting with death.

There are plenty of reasons why it’s not the greatest pastime. For example, the third rail on the track is electric, so if you fall, the best you’ll get is a burn, and the worst you’ll get is electrocution. Then there’s always the chance of getting caught between two trains, or simply getting run over…I’m sure there’s other horrible ways to go, but as Eren always says, _just don’t fall._

Of course it’s easier said than done, but there’s something about it, once we get started, that makes me forget why it’s a bad idea. 

“Go, _now!”_ Eren yells- one second I’m airborne, illuminated by the metro’s cavern platform lamps, flying through empty space, the train in front of me speeding past, a silver blur, and the next I’m gripping the handle of the train’s caboose, the only lifeline between me and the rails below. My toes scrabble at the small ledge beneath my feet desperately, trying to find a solid balance. It won’t necessarily kill you if you fall, but it _will_ hurt like a bitch. And I’m really not in the mood to deal with burns and fractures right now. Especially not my own burns and fractures.

We shoot out of the station and into the tunnels. A quick glance to my left reveals that Eren has landed perfectly beside me. He swings himself closer, clinging to the rails that stick out of the back end of the train with much more ease than my clammy grip. “You’re rusty,” he shouts over the roar of the subway’s rumble, his words echoing in the tunnel chambers. 

“I’m not boosted,” I shout back. “It’s not fair, you should have told me we were going jumping before we left!”

Eren bares his teeth in a grin. “Messing with you is half the fun,” he whoops. “Watch out, second jump coming up!”

“Yeah yeah, right behind you-”

The next approaching train shoots by; Eren hoists himself over the caboose’s railing and throws himself off the edge. True to my word, I follow right on his heels, hitting the side of the second train hard, my body continuing to jerk forward with the whiplash of the sudden switch in direction. My fingers slide down the icy exterior of the caboose, searching for something to hold onto; I find nothing but smooth metal. 

“Shit,” I yelp, my mind going blank with panic as I slide towards the tracks- then Eren’s got a fistful of the scruff of my jacket, and I latch onto the handle, breathing hard, as he hoists me up. 

“Careful,” he says. 

“Ah, fuck you. _Fuck_ you, Jaeger.”

He smiles. “Wanna go again?”

I can't help myself. I'm an addict in every sense of the word. “Again. Definitely again.” 

When we jump this time, as the booster takes over my body at last, I almost believe I’m flying. 

\---

I was right about Petra. By the time we get to her place, she won’t even show us the supply before she’s let us have a piece of her mind. “Don’t _ever_ show up this late again,” she lectures, pulling Eren into an iron-gripped hug. “I was about to drop everything to go looking for you.”

Petra is slender and pretty, ginger hair worn tied back, nose studded, clothes tight, black ink on pale skin. She doesn’t affiliate herself with the 104th, but she’s an old friend of Levi’s and she’s happy enough to be his supplier and his middleman. 

Eren wriggles out of arm’s reach, grumpy. The boosters are already wearing off, and I’m pretty sure he’s back to wondering why he’s awake right now instead of sleeping in with his boyfriend. “Get off,” he complains. “Jean's here too, you know, go hug _him.”_

She does. I shoot Eren a look from over her shoulder. “Seriously,” she clucks, drawing back and patting my cheek. “I worry about you two. Levi’s always sending you out on the worst jobs- it’s unfair, and you’re still so young-”

“We can handle it,” Eren mutters, shifting his weight. He’s always been uncomfortable with Petra’s cooing and petting.

Petra stamps her foot. “But why not send Reiner, or Bertl? They’re bigger. If you were to get jumped-”

“We can handle it,” Eren repeats sharply. “There’s a reason we’re chosen, Petra.”

She sighs, leading us towards the back counter. “Yes, I know. You’re his favorites. Stupid, _stupid…”_

There are two silver cases laid out on the ledge; Petra clicks them open smoothly, still fussing about Levi and his lack of compassion under her breath. “Here you go,” she says at last, laying them out for us to inspect. “I’ve already taken a look and they’re all in top shape. Probably one of the best purchases you’ve made in months. The Legion’s crackdown hasn’t affected the experienced dealers, apparently, they’ve been in the game too long.” 

Eren’s satisfied expression sours at the mention of the Legion; I don’t know who he hates more, Erwin Smith’s elite police force or the Titans. Both of them give us hell, but at least the Titans are somewhat predictable. Erwin keeps us guessing on his motives half the time, and not even our best efforts and bribes have gotten us an informer on the inside. It’s like he brainwashes them or something- I mean, I’m not saying that I would betray the 104th for any amount of money, but holy shit…Annie offered the last guy half a million in cash _and_ boosters, and that’s a fucking lot even on Sina standards. 

“They’re good to go,” Eren decides, clicking the case shut and sliding it into his bag, eyes still narrowed. “Thanks, Petra.”

Her face softens. “Come back soon,” she says, tugging on Eren’s left ear affectionately. “You can fill me in on all the crazy things you two have been up to.” 

“Sure, yeah, maybe,” Eren mumbles, backing away towards the door. “C’mon, Jean. Later, Petra.” 

The door starts to swing shut and I make to head out too, but a hand on my shoulder stops me. “Jean,” Petra says suddenly, and I glance back at her. 

“Yeah?” 

She worries her bottom lip in between her teeth slightly. “How is he?” 

“Wha- oh, you mean Eren?” I’m puzzled by the question. “He’s…fine. Good.” 

“No, really. I mean…” She’s staring past me; the door is swaying on its hinges, squeaking gently. “I heard about that blond boy of his, and after what happened, I was just wondering…” 

“He’s fine, Petra.” I brush her hand off of my arm. “You shouldn’t pry,” I add, a little peeved that she’s digging through this kind of stuff.

“Frankly, Jean? I don’t give a damn.” Her eyes find mine again, and to my surprise, they’re clear and hard. “Listen to me; don’t ignore this shit, don't leave it. People like him are wounds, and they’ll fester and rot- and one day you’ll look at them and they’ll be gone.”

Every bit of sweetness in her voice has vanished. I blink. “Petra?” 

“Don’t you let them disappear. Don’t you dare.”

I stare at her, mouth half-open. She turns away. 

“You come to _me,”_ she instructs sharply. “He goes off the rails, you come to me. Not Mikasa. Not Ymir or Reiner. Not even Levi.”

“W…what?”

“You heard me.” She raises her head, jaw set. “Not even Levi, Jean.”

My mind is buzzing with confusion and anger- confusion over her austerity, anger that she has the nerve to suggest going behind the 104th’s back, much less _Levi’s_ back- and what the fuck, man, who gave _her_ the fucking right to talk shit about Eren, only _I’m_ allowed to-

She jerks her chin towards the door. “Go on, catch up with him. I’ll see you later.”

“Hey, wait a minute-”

“Go on,” Petra says, a warning now, and I beat it. For all the shit running through my head, Petra does scare me. It’s the sweetest people who always seem to have the shortest tempers, in Trost.

“There you are,” Eren calls, jogging up to me as I round the corner. “I was so eager to get outta there that I didn’t check that you were following me, thought you were behind me for two whole blocks- jeeze, you’re moving fucking slow today, Kirstein.” 

I’m not in the mood, not anymore. “Give it a rest, Jaeger.”

He shoves me lightly, grinning. “You wanna go, huh? You wanna go?” 

“Eren, I’m serious. Give it a rest-”

He swings at my head playfully, and I duck. “Let’s go, let’s fucking _go!_ Let’s take this outside-”

I sigh at that. His good humor, when it comes around, has always been contagious. “We’re already outside, you idiot.”

“Ah, shut up. Goddamn killjoy.”

“Asshole.”

“Dickwad.”

“Fuckface.”

“It’s on,” he shouts gleefully, and when I sling my arm around his shoulders, he punches me in the stomach. 

\---

Looking back, I wish I could have frozen time right there. With dumb, fake fights and jumping the metro on a two-minute notice. Petra pissing me off, Levi assigning tag-teams and pick-ups, Armin squeezing Eren’s hand...

Because there’s a definitive difference between how things begin to play out after these moments end, and how they used to play out. And it starts with the buzz of my phone in my back pocket as Eren drives his fist into my skull, laughing. 

I dig the phone out of my pocket and into my hand, trying to block Eren’s pretend attacks. “Fuck, Levi texted me. Get off, Eren!”

“Hah, take that! You couldn’t take me if I was _blindfolded-”_

“Yeah? We’ll see about that- shit, just give me a minute, okay?” 

He shoves off of me, jabbing his elbow in my side in finality. “If he’s texting you poop jokes again-”

“Pfft. I’m still pretty sure that was _you,_ Eren, not him.”

“Dude, he fucking loves poop jokes. Not kidding, this one time-”

There are two words on my screen, and I feel it at once, the hollow ache in my gut that whispers insecurity and fear. 

“Jean?” Eren peers at me. “Fuck, you just went pale. Is everything…”

Two words: code red. 

I hit call. 

It rings once, picks up. “Tell me you’re somewhere secure,” Levi snarls. 

“We can be. Levi, what-”

“Get there now. Don’t ask questions, Kirstein.”

“You sent me a code red,” I say, heart beating fast. “I think I’m allowed to ask questions.”

Levi is quiet on the other end; the silence is peppered with static. 

“Levi?” I ask. “What the fuck happened?”

“The Titans just demanded ransom."

“Ransom?” I furrow my brow. “What could they possible hold against…”

I trail off. Eren stares at me. Levi exhales, voice low. 

“I’m sorry, Jean,” he says. “They have Bertholdt.”


	4. This Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm not plying you with liquor,  
> for your tongue to get a flicker;  
> I just need to tell my story  
> if you're drunk I'll get done quicker. 
> 
> Josef Salvat, This Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Sorry this aren't weekly updates, but I'm getting way too attached to this story and so I take forever to edit because I'm afraid of missing minute details and stuff. D:

Silence is something that I can deal with. 

Silence means that there’s thinking involved. That whatever is wrong is being dissected, taken apart, red penned. They’re figuring it out. They’re going through it. There’s a solution somewhere in the silence and it’ll be found eventually. 

It’s the talking I can’t handle. 

The _“don’t worries”_ and the _“it’s-okays”_ and _“everything-will-be-fines”._ The shit that people blurt out when they don’t know what else to say. Filling the void. Pretending. It’s what echoes through the hallways of the 104th the week after Bertholdt’s disappearance. 

The nervous chatter doesn’t infect everyone- I sure as hell don’t give in. And different people have different ways of dealing with it, when it gets to be too much. Eren snaps back more easily. Sasha eats more, smokes double. Annie avoids everyone’s eyes and keeps her head down- little things, coping. 

The one thing that no one can ignore is Reiner’s door, shut tight since the day the call came in. 

Levi had held a meeting when everyone regrouped, to go through the facts. Yes, the Titans had Bertholdt, and yes, they’d offered sufficient enough proof. Mikasa had asked to see the evidence and Levi had obliged, passing the photos around the table. 

Reiner had looked away when I slid it across to him. 

“Braun,” Levi had said, gently. But Reiner had clenched and unclenched his fists, and stared straight ahead. 

“No.”

“You need to see it.”

_"No.”_

“Braun.” Just his name, but it was still an order. “Look at the damn photo.”

It hadn’t been pretty. Bertholdt’s eyes were open, but they were glazed over with either shock or sedation. He had a gag stuffed into his mouth, cuffs around his hands and feet. He had been bleeding from his scalp, blood trickling down the corner of his forehead, soft yellow and brown-black bruises scattered across his forehead and down the right side of his cheek. Reiner had stared at the photo for one second, two seconds, three seconds. 

Then he’d stood, left the room, and locked himself away. And Levi hadn’t had anything to say, not about that. 

That kind of silence, at least, is the kind I’d rather fill. 

It’s cloudy, gray, almost raining, like the weather is either pissed off or just mocking us. To get away from the pressure of the burdened quiet, a bunch of us crash at the basketball court a few blocks away. Krista hops up onto the bleachers to watch, Connie procures a not-quite-flat ball with a grin, and Ymir strips off her shirt to reveal a grimy gray sports bra, yelling “I call skins”. The motions are ones that we’ve been through a thousand times, but the whole procedure seems a little forced given the circumstances: Connie’s grin is a little too bright, Ymir’s snark is a little too false. And everyone is on edge, glancing around as the minutes pass just to check that all of us are still here, still standing. It’s reflexive. We’re nervous.

“You should go talk to him,” Mikasa calls to Eren as he lines up a shot. At the words, he jerks slightly, and the ball spins off the rim. 

“Who?” he scowls at her, blaming her for the missed basket. 

“Reiner.”

Ymir has the ball, I’m covering Sasha, and Eren snorts, loping back to midcourt, looking for an opening. “The fuck could I say to make it any better? You want me to go talk to him? Why?” 

Mikasa screens Connie and he pouts a little before backing away from Ymir, who almost goes for the basket but then decides otherwise, passing to Annie at the last second. “Don’t be an idiot,” Mikasa says. “Because of Armin.”

Eren is almost nailed in the face by Ymir’s elbow as he stops dead in his tracks. “What did you just say?”

“Because of Armin,” Mikasa repeats clearly, glancing at him for a moment. “You’re the only one who’s remotely qualified to get through to him, Eren.” 

Eren goes from annoyed to angry in a matter of seconds, but Mikasa stays straight-faced, cool-headed. Annie passes her the ball and she dribbles to the edge of the three-point line. 

“Reiner,” says Eren through gritted teeth, heroically attempting to stay focused on the game, “does _not_ want to hear about Armin.”

“I’m only saying that you’ve been in the same situation,” Mikasa replies, eyes on the hoop, lifting the ball and releasing it without pause. It swishes in, nothing but net, and Eren cracks a little more. 

“You don’t know what it’s like!” he shouts, storming towards her, the game forgotten; she stays perfectly still, but I can see the alarm in her eyes. “You don’t know what it’s like to have to deal with not knowing, waiting for them to kill him and send his body home so you can have _something_ left to remember him by, you don’t know what it’s _like,_ so don’t fucking _tell_ me what to do-”

There’s the tinny clamor of footsteps on metal and I glance over to the bleachers to see Krista running towards us, face creased in worry. Mikasa blinks a little at Eren’s outburst, but she continues making her point all the same, words carefully measured. “Eren, calm down. If Armin can make it home in one piece, so can Bertholdt-”

“SHUT UP!” Eren starts toward Mikasa, fists raised, and Mikasa’s mouth falls open in surprise even as she raises her hands to block- but before he can start throwing punches, Krista slides in between them, voice breathless and clear blue eyes wide. 

“What are you doing?!” she trills, grabbing Eren’s wrists. “Stop it, Eren, stop!”

His face is white with anger and I can see the muscles clenching in his jaw. He looks like he’s choking, words building in his throat that he can’t find the strength to say. “Get off, Krista!”

Ymir jumps in almost immediately. “Don’t you fucking _touch_ my girl, Jaeger-”

“She’s the one grabbing at _me!”_

“We’re all mixed up right now,” Krista pleads, tugging on his hands. “Bertholdt means a lot to everyone, we’re all confused, Eren, please!”

“You don’t know,” he snarls, tearing away from her, turning his back on us as he storms off of the court. “Fuck it, you don’t know, none of you.”

Mikasa looks floored. Annie brushes the hair out of her eyes, holding the ball uselessly. Connie scuffs at the ground with the tip of his tennis shoe while Ymir scoffs, shivering a little, wearing only her sports bra, more pity than bitterness behind her expression. 

“Should I go after him?” Sasha asks Mikasa tentatively. When she doesn’t respond, I sigh. 

“I got it,” I tell the both of them. “You guys finish up the game, okay?”

I don’t stop to see if they do as I say. Eren’s almost out of sight, and I break into a jog, heading after him. 

He doesn’t have a set route, given the way that he’s winding through the streets without purpose or pause. When he finally stops, chest heaving, wiping roughly at his eyes with the back of his hand, I stay a few feet away, giving him distance. 

“I hate it when you fucking tail me, Kirstein,” he mutters at last, not having to turn to know who’s behind him. I wonder if he’s boosted again. I wonder how many times he’s boosted in the past week. 

I wonder if it’s like reliving a nightmare. If, maybe, walking through the 104th hallways, trying to breathe in the fragile, stilted silence, he forgets that it’s Bertholdt that’s been taken this time, and not Armin.

“Eren…”

“I’m not in the fucking mood.”

“I get it,” I say. “I get it, all right?”

He glances at me, crusted eyes narrowed. “Like hell you do.”

“Not personally, maybe.” I don’t try and pretend, for his sake. “But I know what you’re saying. There’s nothing worse than lying to Reiner, right? It doesn’t matter if that’s what he wants to hear. In the end it’s better giving him the truth or nothing at all.”

Eren sniffs, rolls one shoulder, drops his voice the way he always does after he’s been crying but doesn’t want anyone to know. “Even if we get Bertl back…” he begins, voice unsteady, “no, you know what, fuck that. We won’t, there’s no way, and even if we do, he won’t be the same. Armin- Armin was never-” 

I rest my hand on his shoulder, stopping him there. “I get it,” I reassure him, voice low.

“I can’t tell Reiner it’s over.” His voice cracks. “I can’t tell him, I can’t, I can’t look him in the face, because if I do, he’ll know…god damn it, how am I supposed to say it? Hey, man, the guy you think you know, he’s gone, and even if we get him back, it won’t _be_ him, not really, not ever-”

He lights a cigarette, but his hands are shaking so bad that he drops the damn thing. I pull out one of my own and hand it to him, striking up my lighter and waiting for him to lean into the flame. 

“I tried so hard to put Armin back together, after,” he whispers. “But it’s like trying to build a puzzle with pieces that don’t fit. He looks at me like he hates me, and sometimes-”

He closes his eyes, laughs hollowly.

“Should’ve figured it’d happen again,” he adds, scornful. “To someone else. Fuck, fuck this.”

“Levi’s doing everything he can.”

“Not a lie,” Eren agrees, exhaling smoke. It twists in the air softly, clouding his eyes behind a veil of white-gray. “But not a comfort, either. You can’t reason with these- Jesus. I can’t even call them people. It’s like they feed off of it, off of shit like this. Jesus Christ.”

He passes the cigarette to me and I take a drag, feeling the comfort of nicotine wash through me. We stand there, backs up against the old brick of the alley, in a comfortable quiet, leaving the rest of our worries unspoken.

More silence. 

“You’re lucky,” Eren says quietly, finally. “You’re lucky that you don’t have anyone to- you know…look out for.”

I think about that. About the half-smile on Connie's face when he slings his arm around Sasha’s shoulder, about the way Ymir's eyes go misty when Krista touches her hand. I think about that, and inexplicably, I think of Marco, words soft under the neon blaze of stage lights, smile even softer. 

“Do you regret it?” I ask Eren. “Having to look out for Arlert?”

He looks at me for a long time, cigarette back between his fingers. “Never,” he says. “I suppose it seems less and less that way, lately.”

The look on his face is so intense that I can’t bring myself to press him any further. Instead I just watch him tap flaky ashes to the ground, and rub his fingers over the scars on his forearms. 

“I’m heading back,” he says, pushing off the wall. “If I don’t give an apology to Mikasa within the hour she’ll kick my ass. You coming?”

Safety in numbers is a good idea with the way things have gone lately, but I know without a doubt that Eren can take care of himself. “Nah, I was gonna meet up with Sasha and Con.”

Eren nods, smiles, even though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Right. It’s Saturday again…guess I forgot. Time flies, or whatever…” He grinds what’s left of the cigarette into the ground with his heel. “Thanks for the smoke, man. Catch you later.”

“Eren?” I call after him, too loudly, as he walks away, and he pauses, glancing over his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” I say. “About Armin. I never told you that, before.”

His smile flickers. “I am, too,” he replies. “But that’s life, right?”

Then he rounds the corner, and leaves me standing there, alone.

\---

The Wall doesn’t feel like it should, but when the thought crosses my mind I feel ridiculous. How do I _expect_ it to feel? It’s an atmosphere, an escape. It has no reason to be sympathetic, why should I assume it has the obligation to be? 

It’s like when you stub your toe, and you limp around all day, grumpy as fuck, waiting for someone to notice and fawn over you. And no one ever does, because they’ve got other things to do. You’re just another guy who looks like you’ll kill the first person to touch you.

The Wall is like that. Sure, Bertholdt is gone. But that doesn’t change the thrill of the music or the gleam of the shot glasses at the bar, even if in retrospect, both those things don’t seem to matter as much as they did, just days ago. 

Speaking of shot glasses, Sasha and Connie are going at it downing one after the other, heads tossed back, eyes hard. I guess I should be over there too, trying to forget the way I usually do. After Thomas, I had. After Armin.

But it’s like Mikasa had murmured as Reiner had stood and left the room after seeing the photo, so softly that I wasn’t sure if I had meant to hear- _this pain is familiar._

Too familiar to forget, this time around. And so I wander out into the back alley, instead, where we’d set up the needles in a time that seems forever ago, pushing ecstasy underneath the prison of our skin. I light up a blunt Ymir rolled for me this morning and breathe in, hold, breathe out, slow, breathe in, hold-

“Jean?”

I hadn’t even heard the door open. Maybe Eren’s got the right idea, boosting up all the time. When he’d said I was rusty, he must have meant it in more than one way. 

“Hey,” I reply, like it doesn’t bother me that he’d been able to catch me by surprise. “Marco.”

His eyes brighten, just slightly. “You remember my name.”

“I remember most people’s names,” I lie. I don’t know why. I don’t like the way he called me on it, I guess. Or maybe I’m uncomfortable that I remembered at all. Maybe it's that I keep remembering more than his name. Like the light dust of freckles just above his collarbone. Like the deepness of his eyes, and the way that his forehead creases when he raises his eyebrows...the way he's raising them now.

"You're smoking that by yourself?" he says, gesturing towards the blunt incredulously. 

"It's harder to get high off of recreational stuff once you start boosting," I tell him, shrugging. "Like when you take...I don't know, aspirin- once you build up a tolerance to it, you take more to get the same effect. Boosters fuck with you like that."

"Don't you get worried about that sort of stuff?" Marco asks.

I cock my head. "What'dya mean, worried?"

"Worried about- about what it does to you, when you use the boosters-"

"Concerned about my health, are you?" I smirk at him. "How did _you_ feel, the night you shot up?"

Marco bites his lip. "Well," he starts, then exhales. "Okay, I'll hand it to you, it was...something."

"Something," I repeat, smirk growing.

"It was- fine, it was amazing," he relents. "But you- you take them so regularly, aren't you...afraid, of what they could be doing to you?"

My lewd smile drops. "I'm not afraid," I say sharply. "We're all gonna die anyway, Freckles. Might as well enjoy it. How'd you know I was out here?"

I can see in his face that he knows I'm changing the subject on purpose, but he goes with it, pushing back against the wall next to me. “I saw your friends,” he explains. “At the bar. They didn’t really want to talk to me and I’m not sure how much actual talking they’ll be able to do in about five minutes…but they were conscious enough to be able to tell me where you were.” 

Breathe in, hold. Breathe out, slow.

“Don’t take it personally,” I exhale. If the smoke bothers him, he doesn’t say anything. “There’s just something…a shitstorm went down, kind of, lately. It’s not something that any of us can control.”

“Something happened?” He looks concerned, half-eager, big eyes fixed on me. His gaze is so heavy. I don’t know if I can carry it for the entire night; to distract myself, I offer him up the blunt.

“Jean.” Marco shakes his head, pressing my hand down. “Are you okay?”

I swallow hard and take another puff, but I hold too long and almost hack up a lung coughing. Marco waits. “You- _ugh-_ probably don’t want to hear about it,” I manage at last, eyes watering and throat burning. “It’s nothing to do with your kind, anyway.”

God, his eyes are deep. Not in the metaphorical sense, either- I mean, really, physically, deep. They’re black holes. I could get lost if I let myself. 

“It doesn’t have to do with me to make it important,” says Marco, and then he reaches out, and touches the back of my hand, the one that’s not holding the blunt. His fingers are slim. There’s a freckle on the edge of his pinky, just one, separate from the rest. 

Another thing for me to remember. 

It doesn’t matter, I think. It shouldn’t matter, he shouldn’t matter. Bertholdt is what matters. The empty space in my chest where Thomas used to be, where Armin’s old self had been. That’s what matters. Not freckles. 

“Who says it’s important?” And still, in contradiction to everything my brain is telling me, I flip my hand over, stroking the inside of his wrist with my thumb. It’s just a distraction, I argue silently with myself. He’s a release. It’s just liked getting boosted. He’s another drug. 

_You’d better hope you don’t get addicted to this one, Kirstein._

“It’s important to me if it’s important to you,” Marco says. 

I laugh. “Cute. But like I said, you probably don’t want to hear about it- I mean, it’s not you come here to _talk_ to me, right?”

Something in Marco’s eyes flickers, so fast that at first, I think I’ve imagined it. But then he turns all the way toward me, hand slipping, fingers tightening in mine. “Jean,” he says. “I would still come, every week, if talking was all we did.”

This guy.

I’ve never met anyone…

His eyes are so deep, and I’m getting lost. 

“Jean?” He’s biting his lip, and his eyes are deep enough that right now, nothing matters. “I didn’t mean-”

“I wanna kiss you,” I say, helplessly. 

His eyes widen. “Oh,” he whispers. “Okay.”

He lets me, yielding to it all, soft under my mouth. I must taste like tobacco, I realize, I must taste like smoke, and anger. Burning up, bitter. He takes it all, yields to it all. I kiss him and he tastes sweet, not angry. 

I can’t help myself. 

“I…now I just-” I let go of his hand, toss the blunt, fix my grip on his collar. “I wanna take you- take you somewhere else. I’m sick- I’m so _sick_ of this, sick of here, I wanna see you- boosted, sober, I don’t care, I just-”

Marco chuckles, but it’s gentle, not accusing. Like he doesn’t blame me, for needing him. He’d be the only one, I think, suddenly. “When I said I didn’t mind hearing you talk, I wasn’t imagining this kind of talking-”

“But you don’t mind,” I finish.

“Whatever you need,” he replies. 

I wish he hadn’t said that. I kiss him before he can say it again.

“Jean,” Marco says. I kiss him. I kiss my name off of his lips when he tries to repeat it; he breaks away, panting. “Are you serious, about wanting to get out of here?” He has his hands on my waist, but I need them everywhere, and _not_ in an alley- not this time. 

“Yes. Yes, god. I don’t care where we go, just not here, anywhere but here. A motel-”

“My place.”

I freeze. “Sina?”

He touches my cheek. “Are you scared?” he asks, softly. The way I’d asked him, under the strobe lights of the dance floor. 

“It’s not exactly my territory-”

“And you think this is mine?” 

His eyes are so deep, too deep. That’s the only reason I kiss him again, to keep from drowning. He trails his fingers down my back, lightly, and lets his hand rest at the base of my spine.

“Scared, Jean?” he asks again, and leans closer, using my own words against me. “Don’t be.”

“Fine,” I mutter, fast, before I can change my mind. “Okay. Your place, Sina- Jesus, Freckles.”

“Marco,” he reminds me patiently. 

“Sina,” I sigh in response. “Fuck. Fuck everything.”

He kisses me, quickly, to shut me up before he takes my hand again, pulling me out of The Wall, towards the subway. He kisses me, and I get lost in him.

\---

I swear to god, that’s the only reason any of it happens. Because I got lost, plain and simple. Got lost in him. 

It was an accident- _he_ was an accident, I didn’t think…

I didn’t think. I got lost, went too far. I wasn’t boosted. I was scared- not of him, but of what would happen if I let go of him for longer than I had to. 

I was scared. 

I always am.

\--- 

He kisses me when we get on the escalator. He kisses me when I step off. He kisses me before the doors close on the metro and when they open again on a different stop. He drags me into an empty car when ours starts to fill up and he kisses me there, in the back, half-sitting on my lap, knee between my thighs, unashamed- in public. On a subway.

It’s easy to forget that he’s a Sina kid, sometimes. 

I’m drunk. I’m high. On him? He kisses me. High on Marco. I like that. I like kissing him more. 

I say it out loud, on accident, and Marco _hmms._ “You like kissing me more?” he breathes, mouthing at my ear. _No, Marco, stop that._ The fuck is he doing, trying to get me to strip him down right here and just be done with it? “More than what?” 

“Uh,” I babble, hands jumping up to grasp his shoulders. “Fuck. Um. A lot of things.”

“Is that right? Tell me.”

“I- _Jesus._ More than, _mmm._ More than dancing at The Wall.”

“That’s a little easy to top, don’t you think?” he purrs; he starts nibbling at my throat and I tip my head back instinctively to make it easier for him- which is actually just as bad of an idea as it is a good one, because all it does is make my jeans a _little_ tighter and a _little_ more uncomfortable. “More than- more than taking shots, more than- _fuck,_ Marco- more than- more than boosting up-”

He pulls back, looks at me. 

“Really?” he says.

“Really what?” I want his mouth back on me. 

“Boosting up…you mean that?”

I scowl at his expression. “You want a prize or something?”

He laughs, and I’m high again. 

The subway doors open and before I know it he’s pulling me along again, fingers tight around my wrist. It’s started to rain while we were underground, and neither of us are wearing jackets. “Don’t worry, I don’t live far from here,” he says, confident, this is his district, his turf. The timid nervousness in his expression is gone, replaced with an easy smile. 

I haven’t been up to Sina for a long, long time, and the unfamiliarity hits me all at once. The streets are bright, even at night and even with the rain, sleek cars humming by, the drizzled fog casting a pale-hued glow over the traffic. Lights from both modern, chic apartment buildings and ancient twisting, stone houses cast sharp-angled shadows over the sidewalk as Marco leads me forward. People pass us, laughing, walking arm-in-arm, unafraid, careless. 

It’s beautiful. Like something out of a modern-day fairy tale. I have to force myself to hate it.

“You okay?” Marco asks quietly, wiping at his rain-soaked forehead. I realized I’ve tensed up since we left the subway. 

“Fine,” I murmur. “Just…fine.” 

He offers me a hesitant smile, pausing to look me in the face. Standing under the warmth of the lamppost next to the curb he looks otherworldly- I reach out and pull him towards me, kissing the smile off of his face and then kissing him deeper, hands fisting in his jacket, tugging at his hips.

“Mmh- we’re a block away, just _wait,_ Jean-”

“What?” I ask coyly. “Like you _waited_ on the subway?” 

The smile turns sheepish. “Touché,” he says, “but wait. One block.” 

Waiting turns out to be a good idea anyway- the rain starts coming down harder and soon we’re running, stumbling through the streets and splashing through puddles. He’s still gripping my hand and thank god for that- I can hardly see, water dripping into my eyes, and so I follow him blindly, our laughter in tune to the racked shivers running through our bodies as the frigid rain seeps into our clothing. 

“Here!” Marco shouts as thunder shakes the street, turning into a thin, snaking walkway. I get a glimpse of the building- ivy-covered red brick, iron-cast windows- and then we’re at the door, warm air a blessed greeting as we burst into the entrance of the apartment, shaking with cold and giggling like we’re teenagers past curfew. 

He fits his mouth against mine, running his fingers through my wet hair; with a gentle push, he simultaneously steers me back towards the elevator. There’s no one in the lobby, no one lingering in the halls. We take our sweet time in between quiet gasps and soft hums, kissing slowly now, pausing only to press the gleaming silver button marked _4th floor._

The carpets are delicately embroidered, the door handles are burnished bronze. But all I see is Marco: the one small dimple that creases when he smiles too hard, the way the corners of his eyes crinkle when he laughs. 

The door to his apartment closes behind us, and he rests his forehead against mine. 

“Hey,” he says softly.

“Hey,” I say, softer. 

He unbuttons my drenched shirt, and drops it to the floor. 

Then he guides me toward the couch, and when my back hits the cushions, he follows, bracing himself over me. 

His knees press into my sides, his hands gripping my hips. My head tilted back, his mouth dragging kisses across my skin. Words, sweet nothings whispered and moaned against him, against his lips. 

I get lost, and I don’t want to resurface- but then there’s the loud shriek of his cell, the ringtone blaring out between the two of us, and I do. 

Marco jerks back at the noise, laughing slightly, panting as he fumbles for his phone in his pants pocket.

His jeans are still wet with the rain and the phone is insistent, wedged in his pocket and refusing to budge. He yanks hard, grumbling softly about timing, and finally pries it free, but the momentum sends it slipping out of his hands- he makes a half-hearted grab for it but it bounces to the floor, vibrating with the shrill ring on the carpet. “Crap,” he sighs, giggles creeping back into his voice. 

He reaches for it but I get there first, shaking my head at him in mock irritation, trying to bite back my grin and failing miserably. I pick up the phone, moving to drop it back into his hand.

Then I glimpse the name of the caller, and my smile fades.

And I stop.

I swing my legs over the side of the couch. Turn to him, slowly. His face is solemn, sober.

“Jean,” he says, quietly. “Give me the phone, please.”

I stay where I am, heart pounding in my chest- but _calm._ I’m calm. 

“Jean-” 

“Tell me, Marco,” I answer steadily. “How many people do you know with the name _Erwin?”_

He swallows. “Give me the phone,” he repeats.

“Because me?” The cell is still ringing, buzzing in my hand. Marco’s gaze is starting to waver but I keep my eyes locked on him, unmoving. “I only know one- and he’s the leader of the Legion."


	5. The Kids Aren't Alright

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fall to your knees, bring on the rapture.  
> Blessed be the boys time can't capture  
> On film or between the sheets;  
> I always fall from your window to the pitch-black streets.
> 
> Fall Out Boy, The Kids Aren't Alright

There are two things it could be. 

One. 

Erwin is just a friend. A casual acquaintance, even. Calling to check in-- _hey, Marco, it’s been years._ Friend. Acquaintance. It’s nothing. I’m overreacting. I’ve almost ruined this good thing we had going and damn, Jean, do you always look that scary when you’re mad? 

Two--

The phone stops ringing, and Marco’s staring at me with one hand outstretched, like I’m some kind of wounded animal who’s gonna freak and jump if he moves too fast. 

“Jean,” he says, nearly a whisper, and I know it’s Two.

“Tell me you’re not.”

“Not what?”

“Tell me,” I say quietly, dangerously, a warning. “Marco.”

Marco swallows hard, chest rising gingerly with every breath. “I don’t know what you’re-”

 _“When_ were you planning on telling me?” 

Marco licks his lips, eyes flitting away and back. “I didn’t think it would come up,” he says softly. “Jean, you don’t-”

That pushes me over; I slam my hands down on the table, gritting my teeth, anger lashing out. “If you have the fucking _guts_ to say _I don’t understand-”_

“You don’t.”

I bark out a laugh but there’s no humor in it. “Tell me, then- _tell_ me you’re not a part of the Legion-” 

Marco glances down, rubbing the back of his neck. His voice is low. “I won’t lie to you,” he says, gently, and I throw the phone at his feet, grab my shirt, turn towards the door. 

I hear his scrambled footsteps behind me as I shrug back into the still-damp shirt, my fingers slipping on the buttons. “Jean- wait, please!” 

I slam the door of his apartment behind me; he throws it open. “I deserve time to explain,” he calls after me. “And you deserve an explanation.”

I whirl on him, fingers automatically going to my thigh, where I usually strap my holster-- _how could I have been so fucking blind to have gone to Sina without my gun?_ “Stay the _fuck_ away from me-”

“It’s not about you,” Marco says, slowing on the stair above me. “It’s not about you, or the 104th. This is about boosters, what you’re _doing_ to yourself, Erwin’s work-” 

“Erwin’s work is murder,” I spit. “That’s all it’s ever been and _you’re a part of it._ You see us as gutter rats, don’t you? Just _shit_ to clean off the streets. Well you can fuck off, I’m done. I’m _done,_ I should’ve known from the beginning-”

“You did.”

I snap my gaze up to meet Marco’s, and he’s looking at me like he’s sorry. 

“I mean-- I think you did know,” he clarifies. “Not that I was in the Legion, but that there was something about me that wasn’t right.” 

“That’s not--”

“The others you slept with, your one-night-stands…none of them ever came back, did they, Jean?”

I laugh sharply. “What, you think I take it personally?”

“If you didn’t,” Marco says, softly, “then you wouldn’t have given me your name.”

I freeze.

“You let me in,” he continues, just as soft, just as gentle-- _I want to fucking hit him--_ “I was the first to come back, and you let me in. This isn’t my fault, Jean. On some level, I know you better than you know yourself. You see the 104th as a home. You see your friends as your family. But they haven’t seen the side of you that I have-- it’s _okay,_ Jean, it’s okay to be--”

My temper burns white-hot and I’m flying at him with my teeth bared and my expression contorted, and he just lets me. Lets me throw him back against the wall, my fingers digging into his shoulders, my forearm tight against his throat _shut up shut up SHUT UP--_

There’s pity in his eyes, and I hate it. 

“You don’t know the first thing about me,” I hiss. “I don’t need your fucking _sympathy!”_

He’s grasping at the arm blocking his windpipe, struggling to breathe. But he’s not afraid. _He’s not afraid of me._

Not the way that I’m afraid of him. 

“What the _hell_ kind of game is the Legion playing?” I demand. “What do you think you’re doing, messing around with me, with the 104th? I could kill you right here--”

“You won’t,” he manages. 

“You wanna fucking _bet?”_

“You won’t,” he repeats, and I draw back my arm and let him crumple to the floor because he’s right. 

He’s fucking right. 

I won’t. I don’t know why. I’ve never known why, never with him; it drives me crazy and I’m scared out of my mind, even as he gasps for breath, chest heaving, looking up at me with his hand on his throat-- I defeated him but he knows me and _it feels like he’s won,_ because--

Because I let him in.

“Jean,” he pleads, and I turn and leave him there, crumpled on the floor of the stairs. 

I can feel his dark eyes, heavy on my shoulders, all the way out the door.

\----

By the time I’ve reached the subway, I’m panicking.

The rain is still coming down hard and so my shirt, which had partially dried in the warmth of Marco’s apartment, is wet through once again. Drenched, I stumble down the escalator and into the grimy bathroom in an alcove of the metro station. Locking the door behind me I reel backwards, hitting the wall, sliding to the floor and curling there, arms locked around my own body, forehead pressed against my knees, trying to breathe.

I hadn’t even thought about it.

That’s the kicker. That it had just happened. I hadn’t realized the gravity of the gesture, he’d said his name and I’d responded in kind, _I gave him my name--_

The weight of it comes crashing into me like a tidal wave, head pounding, eyes clamped shut.

There are too many things running through my mind, blurring my thoughts together, making me sick. The Legion, the rain pounding down on the roof, Erwin, the look in Marco’s eyes as he came down the stairs towards me. _I should have killed him, oh my god--_

I grab the sides of my head, fingers digging into my scalp, and I breathe, breathe, breathe, until the world stops spinning.

The familiar ache of sobriety tugs at my gut. I wish I had a cig. I wish I had a booster. 

I wish I’d never met him and I wish that he was here with me. 

I get on the subway, and I don’t think about anything until I’m back at the 104th. 

\---

But I should have known it wouldn’t end there. 

Even after I’m home I keep quiet, avoiding questions from Sash and Connie and ignoring Eren’s jabs. I can’t get it out of my head-- the empathy in his face, the quiet way he’d said my name, I told him my _name_ and I didn’t _realize--_

There’s something I have to do before anything else happens here. Whatever he’s after the 104th for, whatever the Legion wants from me, I have to figure it out before it comes full circle. 

For the second time this week, I knock on Armin’s door. 

“It’s open,” comes the answer, like always. When I walk in I have to search for him among the piles of tech equipment and machinery, of course, but when I find him he’s not working on any of them. He’s sitting cross-legged on the shitty gray couch in the corner, Eren’s head in his lap, paging through a copy of _Crime and Punishment_ as Jaeger snores. His blond hair is tied up in a loose ponytail-- something he only does when he’s reading, because otherwise his hair falls into his eyes. I remember Eren laughing about it before the accident. I don’t remember if I’ve seen either of them laugh like that since.

“Hey,” I greet him, closing the door behind me, but he doesn’t bother looking up from the book.

“Keep your voice down,” he says sharply, half-hushed, more of an order than a hello. “I don’t want to wake Eren, he hasn’t slept this well in weeks.”

“Sure.” I shove my hands in my pockets and lower my voice. “I was wondering if you could, uh…do me a favor.” 

He looks up at that.

“Are you serious?” he says, searching my face, half surprised, half doubtful.

My eyes narrow. “Don’t look so shocked.”

“You _are_ serious.” Armin’s eyebrows inch upwards. “But you’re hardly the type to ask favors, Jean. Especially if it involves having to speak to me.”

“That’s not--” Christ, he’s impossible. “You know that’s not--”

He sighs, shuts the book without bothering to mark his page, and lays it to the side. “What do you need?”

“Info on someone. He’s a part of Erwin’s police force.”

“A Legion member?” The eyebrows go up a second time. “Why?”

I huff. “Look, Arlert, this’ll be easier if you don’t make it a big deal. There’s just a few details I want to check out about recent Legion activity, and I think he might be a part of it. I’ll give you his name, and you give me whatever dirt you can dig up, okay?”

Armin strokes the hair away from Eren’s eyes meticulously, his thumb ghosting over Eren’s brow, and I almost think that he’s forgotten that I’m in the room until he speaks at last. “You _know_ him, then.”

He can see straight through my bullshit. I’d expected that, but it’s still unsettling. I fold my arms across my chest. “Why does it matter?”

Armin raises his eyes from Eren’s face. “Come on, Jean,” he says. “I’m not an idiot. You can tell me, or I can figure it out on my own time. Either way, you do understand that once you’ve given _me_ info, that it’s no longer your secret, right?” 

“This isn’t personal,” I snap. “I don’t give a damn what you find while you’re digging, just get me the fucking info.”

Armin holds my gaze for a long moment. “Okay,” he says finally. “Deal.” 

I blink. “Wha-- so you’ll help me?”

“I don’t know what you’re up to, Jean, but I will soon. Anyway, you’ve always been loyal. It’ll benefit us somehow.” I shift uncomfortably, but he continues like he hasn’t noticed. “Text me the name and a guess at his age, come back in a few days. I’ll give you everything I’ve found then.” 

“I…appreciate that,” I stammer out. “And-- could I ask--”

“I won’t say anything,” he interrupts, already knowing what I’m going to ask. “Not to Levi, or Eren, or anyone. _Our_ secret, right?”

The look in his eyes isn’t encouraging in any way, but I know he’ll keep his word. “I owe you one,” I mumble, backing away towards the door.

“Don’t mention it.” His tone is still dismissive-- but it’s the longest conversation we’ve had since his abduction, and I almost feel good about it, and…

Fuck it.

“You’re not a burden, you know,” I say, my hand resting on the doorknob, caution thrown to the winds. “You never were and you sure as hell aren’t now-- I think you need to hear that from someone other than Eren.”

There’s a heavy pause. Armin stares at me, and I stare back at him.

“Thanks,” he says finally, voice small.

Then he’s back to the book. 

“Make sure the door doesn’t slam,” he adds, and this time he sounds almost like himself. 

\---

Two weeks since Bertholdt went missing, two days since I talked to Armin, three since I last saw Marco, and Levi calls us in for another meeting. 

We’re gathered in what I guess passes for the 104th’s bureau, wallpaper peeling from the old walls, the rickety metal chairs underneath us creaking. Levi takes a drag of his cigarette, rubs his forehead, and sticks his feet up on the table. “All right,” he exhales. “Let’s set this shit straight. Eren?”

Eren’s shoulders go back immediately, posture righting itself as Levi’s gaze falls on him. “Yeah, okay-- so as far as we know, they haven’t made any demands. The only contact we’ve had from them was the claim that they had Bertholdt and the photos of--”

“Not new information. Don’t fucking waste my time, Jaeger.” Levi taps out the ashes of his cigarette with his forefinger. “How likely is it that they’ll demand ransom?”

Eren drops his eyes. “I don’t think…that is, it doesn’t seem in their interest to-”

“The Titans didn’t ask for a ransom with Armin,” Mikasa interrupts quietly; next to her, Eren flinches. “It’s not likely at all.”

Levi takes another drag, gaze unfocused. Across from me, Sasha clears her throat. “Could we approach them first? Offer them something we know they’d want, something they couldn’t turn down?”

“That’d make us look desperate,” Eren argues.

“I’d say that at this point, we _are,”_ Ymir replies shortly, her arm draped around Krista; Krista flicks her forehead and shakes her head slightly, and the brunette backs off, sighing.

“All the same, Eren’s right.” Annie’s at the far end of the room, her white hoodie pulled up over her face, arms folded tight across her chest as she speaks up. “Even if we did bring them a ransom, how would we know what to offer?”

“Exactly!” Eren’s hands are clenching and unclenching into fists at his sides. I can’t see his eyes from where I’m sitting, but from the clipped tone of his words and the stiff set of his body, I’d bet every buck I’ve got in my wallet that he’s boosted. “We can give them the bait, but how’ll we know if they’ll bite? The only thing we are one-hundred percent sure of is that they’re territory-hungry, and slicing off pieces of our turf isn’t fucking _ideal.”_

“Look, Eren.” Connie leans forward. “We’re not looking for ways to fail, okay, we’re looking for ways to get our guy home-”

“Yeah?” Eren’s upper lip is curling; Mikasa puts a hand on his shoulder in warning but he shrugs her off. “I didn’t see anyone offering up our fucking _territory_ on a silver platter when _Armin_ was taken--”

“We never got to that stage, because _you_ took off to deal with it yourself!” 

“If I hadn’t, you would’ve left him to _rot--”_

“Stuff it, Jaeger,” Levi snarls, and Eren’s mouth slams shut. “Can it, you hear me? That’s water under the bridge-- this isn’t about Arlert, so knock it off and get your head screwed on right.”

There’s a heavy pause. Eren scowls, staring at the ground. Flicking the stub of his cigarette to the floor and grinding it down with his heel, Levi turns his eyes on Annie. “Leonhardt,” he says at last. “You up to some surveillance?”

Annie’s eyes glint from under her hood. “If we need it, sure.”

Levi nods. “I want you boosted and out the door in twenty minutes. Skirt around the edges where our turf lines up with theirs. Tail every scout you come across and get as much intel as you can but _stay out of trouble._ And don’t get caught. I’m sick and fucking tired of losing people.”

Annie nods curtly. “You got it.” 

“Good,” Levi replies. “Arlert’s already working on getting us a reliable updated outline of the Titan’s turf-- we’re not gonna storm the fuckwads to get Fubar home unless we have to, and if it comes to that, we’re not doing it without an updated copy of the map we’ve got now. Ymir, I want you on the next booster pick-up with Jean--”

“Woah, hang on.” Eren’s staring at Levi like he’s gone crazy. “That’s _my_ pick-up. You scheduled _me_ and Jean for that run--”

“Jean?” Levi turns to me. “You got a problem with the change?”

“I, uh…no, sir,” I reply, ignoring the outrage on Eren’s face. 

He turns back to Eren coolly. “There you have it. Jean approved. I want you back at the base this week, Jaeger.”

“Doing what?” Eren cries. “Are you _grounding_ me, what the hell is this?”

Levi’s stare is getting deadly fast. “I changed my mind, Eren.” 

“What the fuck? Since fucking _when?”_

“Since you started boosting up every hour of the day!” Levi snaps. “You think I don’t notice? You think _Arlert_ doesn’t notice? He’s been coming to me for weeks, you’re scaring the shit out of him--”

I see the glint of red in Eren’s eyes as clearly as I see the horrified betrayal in his expression, melting quickly into rage. “He-- _Armin_ told you--?”

“You’re on the bench,” Levi says flatly, “until I decide otherwise. Everyone who’s not Jaeger, get the fuck out of the room right now--” 

There’s a sudden chorus of screeching chairs and then we’re all tripping over each other to get to the door. Levi’s cold wrath mixed with Eren’s white-hot fury is not a combination that any of us are keen to witness first-hand. 

Levi reaches out and grabs my forearm as I pass. “You’re with _Ymir_ this week,” he tells me, his eyes still locked on Eren, who’s shaking with anger and the peak of his high. “Got it?”

“Yessir.”

He lets go of my arm, and I’m out of there before Eren can start throwing things. 

\---

Saturday again. 

It’s not something I look forward to anymore. I can’t say the same for Sasha and Connie, but it’s definitely different. We don’t dance this time around, just nurse the drinks in our hands, watching the crowds come and go from the booth we’ve claimed on the side of the club. 

“You think we’ll get him back?” Connie says, staring into his glass, almost too quiet to hear over the pounding of the bass. 

“Hell if I know,” I murmur, dragging my free hand over my face, circling the other around the rim of my drink. “Sasha?” 

She looks at me for a moment. Then she tips forward, gripping her glass. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” she says, and lets her forehead thud onto the table. “I don’t wanna talk at all. Ever again. About anything.”

“Fuck it,” Connie sighs in agreement, letting his head drop onto the table, joining Sasha in her rejection of life’s shitty curveballs. “Jean,” he mumbles from his slouched position, “can you get me another beer?”

“Sure thing, man.” I scoot around Sasha and squeeze Connie’s shoulder as I grab his empty glass, then head back over to the bar, squeezing my way past the thick throng of sweaty clubbers. Leaning up against the counter, I wait for the bartender to finish up with the guy down a few seats from me. I’m playing with the edge of Connie’s glass when I hear it. 

“You’re looking for Jean?”

My hand slips, sending the glass spinning out of my hands and slipping towards the counter’s edge. 

“As in Jean Kirstein?” the bartender asks, confused and suspicious at the same time. “Levi’s guy? The hell do you want him for, Freckles?” 

_No, no, you gotta be kidding me._

I grab the glass just as it begins to topple off the edge, half-praying to whatever the fuck is listening for mercy, and using everything I have to refrain from looking over. 

_I swear to everything remotely holy, if there is a God in this world--_

“That’s between me and him,” says an all-too-familiar voice, and fuck, fuck, _fuck-_

I cross the space between me and my friends in record time, grabbing Connie by the shirt collar and Sasha by the hand. “We have to go,” I blurt, hauling them up; Sasha’s drink sloshes over the edge of her glass and she whines, twisting away from me half-heartedly. 

“I didn’t finish--”

“I don’t give a damn!” I hiss, glancing over my shoulder, wishing she’d keep her voice down. “Leave the drink, we gotta get out of here--” 

The bartender, still entertaining Marco’s questions, spots me from across the club and raises his eyebrows, a subtle question. Drawing my hand over my throat repeatedly, I shake my head in a vicious _NO,_ and he turns back to Marco, an apologetic smile on his face. 

“I’m sorry,” I hear him say as I drag my friends, with difficulty, away from our table. “I’m afraid I haven’t seen him for ages, he hardly comes here anymore--”

Sasha squirms in my grip. “Jean, _what--?”_

I’m on the edge of desperate, yanking at her arm to get her to shut up. “Listen,” I whisper, turning to face them as quickly as I can, “at your five o’clock, the guy standing at the bar-- Sash, don’t _look--”_

She looks. “Who, the classy freckled kid? Wait, isn’t that your dude--”

Jesus, _Jesus--_ I’m in fight or flight mode and I wanna _fly--_ “He’s one of Erwin’s! Sash, Con, please, we gotta go--”

“Holy shit,” Connie says, mouth hanging open as he stares at Marco too. “You’re telling me _we shot up with a guy from the Legi--”_

“That’s exactly what I’m saying so we need to fucking _go.”_ I push them ahead of me, ducking my head low as we work our way through the crowd. The lights and music fade as we cram ourselves through the exit; I slam the door behind us, letting my breath out in a relieved, ragged exhale, hands on my knees, feeling the sweat beading on my forehead cool in the night air.

“Jean?” asks Connie, looking as horrified as I feel. “Fuck, man, how did you figure it out?”

There’s no way I’m telling them-- if they’d known I’d gone to _Sina_ for him-- “Overheard him at the bar,” I say, straightening. “C’mon, I need to talk to Levi.”

They follow behind me, but I see them exchange a glance as they do. “You overheard him,” Sasha repeats. “And what, he happened to mention his affiliation, talking to some random bartender? Maybe you misheard, Jean, it’s not likely that he’d admit to being a part of Erwin’s crew _here,_ they’re not exactly popular--”

“I know what I heard,” I snap. “You calling me a liar, Sasha?”

“Hang on, slow down,” Connie tells me, brow creasing. “She’s not calling you anything, all she’s saying is that it’s weird that he’d slip up so easy--” 

I whirl on them. “Hey, listen, _I’m_ the one who just pulled your asses out of what could’ve been a huge fucking fire. So _maybe,_ instead of doubting me-- _me,_ okay, who you’ve known for years-- you could just go with me on this. Maybe he was drunk. Maybe he was selling info. The hell, how am _I_ supposed to know--”

“We never said we didn’t trust you, Jean,” Sasha says quietly. 

There’s a warning intoned at the end of her sentence, but I don’t care enough to address it. Instead I turn on my heel, striding away from them with the intention of walking the rest of the way in complete silence--

But then I hear my name. 

She’s running toward us, blond hair flying out past her shoulders, big blue eyes brimming with tears, expression distraught. “Wha-- Krista?” I exclaim, surprised. 

“Jean!” she cries again, and when she reaches me she clutches at my jacket with shaking hands. “Sasha, Connie, I’m so glad I found you all--”

“Woah, steady there.” I touch her arm, my bad mood dissolving at seeing her so upset. “Are you okay?”

“It’s Eren,” she says, breathlessly. “Levi sent me to get you, he wants you back at the base--” 

“Eren?” My brow creases. “What did Eren do?” 

She shakes her head, lower lip trembling. “W-we don’t know what happened,” she stammers, her words rising in pitch as she tries to explain. “He got into another argument with L-Levi and after he wouldn’t come out of his room and when I knocked on his door he didn’t answer, and I just wanted to bring him some food because he hadn’t eaten, and-- and when he didn’t answer I opened the door and-- didn’t expect-- I didn’t--”

My heart is hammering against my chest, fear searing through my mind like wildfire. “Krista, what-- what do you--?”

“I thought he didn’t answer because he was still angry,” Krista wails. “I didn’t expect-- I opened the door, and he wasn’t breathing, he wasn’t _breathing--”_

My stomach drops.

“Krista--” Connie is moving forward, gripping my shoulder, holding me up like he can feel the ground under my feet crumbling. “Is Eren-- is he dead, Krista?”

“No,” she sobs, and I close my eyes, relief surging through my entire body down to my fingertips- _thank god, thank fucking god--_ “but he’s not okay. He’s not okay--”

“Take us to him,” I say, voice hoarse. “Now.”

\---

Even asleep, he looks like hell. 

Dark, almost-black bruises blossom under his eyes, his skin deathly pale and oddly luminescent. The gentle rise and fall of his chest is the only thing that reassures me as I watch from his bedside, fingers twisting together in my lap. 

“Tch,” says Levi. “Krista didn’t need to scare you like that. The brat’s fine.”

The brief hesitation in his words says otherwise. 

I turn in my chair to look at him, leaning up against the wall. If I didn’t know him better, I’d mistake his casual stance for indifference. “What happened to him?” I ask. My voice is still shaky.

“You already know as much as I do,” Levi sighs, brushing invisible lint from his sleeve. “Krista found him passed out, we carried him here--”

“I know you have a theory,” I cut over him. “I want to know. What happened?”

Levi looks at me, gaze intense. “I always liked that about you, Jean,” he says. “You never took shit. Eren would eat it right out of my hand, but you...you’d spit it in my face. I always appreciated that, in an off-handed sort of way-- you know that, right?”

I clench my jaw. “What. Happened.”

“Boosters,” Levi says, so softly that I almost don’t hear him. 

“Boost-- what?”

“You heard me.” He tips his head back, staring at the ceiling. “It’s not the first time I’ve heard of it happening...but I suppose I’d forgotten, until now. Or maybe I just put it out of mind…is there a difference, really?”

There’s a strange look on his face, as he turns to face me. 

“There’s always a price,” he says. “Nothing as good as the highs we get comes for free, you’re smart enough to realize that.”

 _This is about boosters,_ I hear Marco’s voice in my head-- _what you’re doing to yourself--_

“I took Eren off of boosters the day of our last meeting,” Levi continues. “He was getting out of hand, shooting up as often as he was; I meant it to be a punishment. I thought I’d make him suffer a little, make him realize he needed to down his doseage. But I’d forgotten-- the weight of the repercussions…”

“He’s like this because he’s off of boosters?” I ask, incredulous. “So what, we stop taking boosters and we just...oh. Oh, my god--” 

It hits me suddenly, and I choke.

“Levi, are you saying--”

“We’re lucky Krista found him when she did,” he replies. “That’s what I’m saying, Jean.”

_What you’re doing to yourself--_

“They’re poison,” I realize, speaking out loud. 

“They’re poison,” Levi agrees. 

“How could you not _tell--”_

“You knew what you were signing up for, Jean,” Levi says sharply. “When you signed up for the 104th, when you agreed to be a part of this family, you knew it was a one-way-street. Boosters are nothing more than a part of the contract. You fall out with the gang, you leave your family, it’s over for you, and the boosters make sure of it.” 

_This is about boosters--_

“We stop taking them and they _kill us--?”_

_What you’re doing to yourself--_

“A part of the contract,” he repeats.

_Erwin’s work--_

I stand, the chair tipping over behind me. Levi lets me go, watches me leave, no doubt making his own assumptions about my haste to get away-- but right now, I don’t give a damn.

Right now I need space. I need space, I need to think, and--

And I need Marco.


	6. Come Closer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You're a million miles,  
> a million miles away.  
> So come closer,  
> so come closer."
> 
> \- Miles Kane, Come Closer
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING! There is a pretty descriptive panic attack in this chapter, and although is is dealt with correctly (diaphragmatic breathing and continual repetition of calming speech) I don't want anyone to stumble into this chapter without knowing what it contains. All in all, the attack isn't too bad, but if you think you might not be okay reading it, please don't! As someone who's had trouble with panic and anxiety attacks for a number of years, please take care of yourself everyone <3

There’s nothing quite like the sick realization that you’ve been played. 

It’s a strange tightness in the hollow of your throat, the uneasy turning-over of your stomach. It’s wanting to kick yourself for not finding out sooner and it’s wishing someone would wipe your memory so you could forget. It’s feeling hoarse wails build inside of your ribcage and it’s reaching out to steady yourself in the doorway of Armin Arlert’s study, because if you don’t, you’ll give out, give up, give in.

_And you have to keep moving._

Armin looks up at me with his hands trembling in his lap.

“I’d been wondering when you’d be by,” he says, jerking his head to motion me inside. His voice is raw and his eyes are rimmed red, hair staticky and tousled from the amount of times he’s run his hands through it. “I have something for you, you need to see it-- come in, don’t just stand there, c’mon, over here, I’ll show you--”

“Armin,” I stop him, reaching out to him but thinking better of it when he spins on me, wheelchair groaning at the abrupt turn, his lower lip quivering but his blue eyes hard.

“I’m fine.”

Eren is the only reason why he is alive, and Eren is the only reason he hasn’t given up-- on the 104th, on himself. Eren is the only one who still looks at him like he is whole.

He’s lying.

“Armin.”

He swallows hard as he wheels away, slower now. “There are-- there are more important things than him--”

“Like _what?”_

“Oh, I don’t know,” he snaps, hands tightening on the chair grips, “maybe the fact that we’re all screwed?”

My breath catches.

“So you know,” I exhale. “About the boosters.” 

“I had…suspicions,” he sighs, head dropping forward, hands combing back strands of blond hair that slip over his forehead and into his eyes. “When I-- when _they--_ took me, I--”

He cuts himself off, shakes his head, digging his fingers more firmly into his temples. I’m still standing in the doorway but I freeze, not daring to move, not now. He’s never spoken about what happened-- not to me, anyway-- and I feel like if I step forward he’ll shrink inward again, cut me off, block me out.

He lowers his hands, instead, interlocking his fingers tightly, raising his head and meeting my eyes. “They would give me boosters,” he says, more clearly, “lots of them, regularly, they would give me Wire, Rush-- and then they would-- they would take me off of it, like a dry spell…for what felt like-- like weeks, of draining the life out of me, breaking me down, it made me this vacant thing and then when it was almost too much, they would shoot me up again-- I mean, I thought it was just my mind, that my brain was messing with me…but god, I should have known, and now _Eren--”_

He looks up, at last, scars bent into his pale cheek.

“They’re killing us,” he says. “Aren’t they, Jean?”

And Levi never said a word.

We didn’t just sign our own death notices without reading the fine print. It’s that Levi, the man who yanked us up from the gutter by the scruff, dusted us off, gave us purpose, a home, a family, a _life--_

He’s the one who handed us the pen, and watched us sign. 

He knew it would work. That we would stumble over ourselves to prove ourselves to him, that we’d hang on his every word, keep our hearts in our throats when he passed by. There isn’t one member of the 104th that he _hasn’t_ screamed curses at, hasn’t punished unfairly for some stupid fuck-up that hardly mattered in the end. He was always iron-willed, set in stone-- but he was always _there,_ too, even when everyone else had turned their backs on us, and…

He’d made us feel like we mattered.

It was easy to love him. We had to. He knew that from the start.

“Still,” Armin muses. “It doesn’t really shock me. He has to keep us here somehow-- although most of us probably would have joined anyway, even knowing what we were consenting to.”

I want to disagree with him so badly; the shitty thing is, I can’t, because even now--

Even now, with something dangerously close to betrayal fresh in my mind and hurt stabbing stupidly at my chest…I wouldn’t give the 104th-- the only people who matter, who I matter to-- up for anything.

Armin digs around on top of one of his tables, rifling through papers and wires searching for something. When he finds it he wheels toward me, looking slightly more put-together. 

“Here,” he says, voice stronger now. “I’m going to check on Eren, take this and go, I’ll cover for you.”

He presses a scrap of paper into my hand, curls my fingers over it.

“I got in touch with an old friend who knew a Legion member before they retired,” he explains, “two years ago. Before he signed off, some college kid jumped onboard as an intern to help carry out psychology studies on the criminals they arrested. He fit the profile you gave me.”

 _Marco. He found Marco._ And I hold the paper slip tighter, gripping my fingers against my palm.

“Go,” he says again, nodding with something like approval, like understanding, and there’s only one thought in my brain after that.

Get to Marco.

I’m stumbling out of the 104th and I’m heading to the subway, ratty sneakers smacking on slimy pavement as I cut across a side street for a shortcut. It hasn’t stormed too bad since the night I went to Sina, but now, in accord to the pressure in my head building and the shit gathering within the 104th’s walls, the clouds draped above my head are dark and menacing, the air heavy and humid and wrapping invisible hands around my neck, fingers clawing down my throat.

Or is that the fear?

There’s too much running through my mind. How could Levi how could he and it’s his fault that Eren is-- is the way he is and I know he’s afraid of losing us and afraid of losing Eren but how could he? He’s taken away my free will, he’s taken away my choice to walk away, I never would walk away and how could he think that any of us could, he is everything to us and doesn’t he _know--?_

Get to Marco.

I skip the escalator and stumble the stairs down to the station, gripping the railing like a lifeline. Too much inside my mind, too much, and what if Eren never wakes up?

He’d die lying on a bed without a gun in his hand or a needle in his arm. Christ, he would hate that, he would hate if he knew and he would beg for me to take him out but I would never I could never there’s nothing I can do, just wait and watch and _oh, god, Eren is going to die--_

_And I am going to die._

Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But I’ve been taking poison death for half of my fucking sorry life and one day I will find myself without Wire or Rush or Moxie and I will die, I am going to die, _I am going to die--_

Maybe I’m dying right now.

How long did it take Eren’s body to give out? How long before he lost consciousness, before his head hit the floor? Did he feel it coming?

When was the last time I boosted up?

I can’t remember. I can’t remember. How long did Eren go without boosters? I don’t know, I don’t remember. Am I dying, oh my god, my head is spinning and is that a symptom? I’m going to vomit I’m on the subway and I’m grasping at the straps above my head, heaving and gasping for breath, unable to care that the other passengers in the car are glancing my way, backing away, clearing a space around me--

Get to Marco, get to Marco, get to Marco.

The slip of paper that Armin gave to me, the address of his apartment scrawled there, is still clutched tight in my fist as the subway slows to a halt and I sway, somehow managing to stay on my feet even as I feel my world pitching and crumbling from beneath me. If I can just get to Marco--

_440 Locust Ave._

His last name is Bodt.

I make it up the stairs of his apartment shaking and white-knuckling the railing blind with fear and the first thing I hear, my hand slamming down on his door in an unsteady wildness, is his laugh.

And then someone else’s. Feminine, higher-pitched. And after that another voice, a man’s, deep--

I pound on the door again, a manic agitation twisting my gut, and Marco’s reply comes more quickly. “In a minute!” he calls, voice muffled from inside. I can hear the smile in his voice, and it is like being gutted, knowing that he can still laugh when Bertholdt could be dead, while Eren is dying, when Reiner is in freefall and Armin has been halfway there for years.

When I might be going into freefall myself.

The door swings open, and he’s there.

Broad smile, freckles scattered across the bridge of his nose. Sweater soft and brown eyes softer, deep, so deep, and he stands there, frozen, and the grin fades, slow and steady, as I look at him and he looks back at me, his lips parting, his face going pale.

“Oh,” he gasps at last. “Oh my god, _Jean--”_

Too much. Too much. My mouth opens and closes and I’m trembling and he starts forward like he’s gonna put his hands on me, and I just, I jerk back instinctively and the light in his eyes fades, and his mouth curves down and I’m sorry but I can’t, I can’t have him touch me right now I’m so afraid and Eren is dying and I am dying--

I don’t even realize I’ve started to stagger backwards until my head hits the wall, until I start to slide to the floor. “Mar--” I gasp, breath coming too fast, breath not coming at all, “Marc--”

Marco _moves,_ fast, slamming the door shut behind him, dropping to the floor in front of me in a half-crouch, one hand on my knee. “Put one hand hand on your chest,” he says, his voice firm and steady.

I can’t breathe. I can’t--

“Put one hand on your chest, Jean.”

Why? I can’t. I can’t, there isn’t air I can’t, Marco, “I can’t--”

“You _can,”_ he says, and takes his hand from my knee and takes my hands in his, ignoring the way I try to scrabble back, away from him. “Put one hand on your _chest--_ like this, see--”

His fingers are warm, wrapped around my wrist. He guides my hand, tugs at it until my palm is splayed out just under my breastbone.

“Now the other one.”

He presses my other hand down against my stomach, just above my waistline.

“Breathe out. Hold it.”

I obey. Stupidly, staring at him with wide eyes.

“Inhale through your nose. Hold it. Exhale, through the mouth. Out, in. Out…in.”

His gaze is so gentle.

I can’t see anything else but him.

“Out,” he murmurs, “in…good, Jean. You’re doing good.”

The frantic, sparking fuzz clouding my brain begins to seep away with every breath I take, my belly rising and falling more slowly, now. “What--” I gasp, but Marco tightens his grip on my fingers, squeezing gently.

“Don’t talk, yet,” he says. “In, out. It’s okay, Jean. You’ll be all right in a minute.”

In and out. I follow his lead, watching as he exhales, matching his pace.

He’s so steady. So composed. He doesn’t take his hands off of mine, and I breathe with him, in, out, watching his lips, watching his shoulders roll as he shifts closer.

He draws back at last.

“Diaphragmatic breathing,” he says, getting back on his feet and offering a hand to help me up.

I shake my head at his offer, scraping myself off of the floor and using the wall behind me for support instead. “Dia-frag-what?” My voice is still thin, weak.

“Diaphrag _matic_ breathing,” he repeats. “You were having a panic attack.”

A _what?_

Me, panicking?

It sounds so fucking ridiculous that I almost snort, a bubble of laughter gurgling up in my throat. But there’s also cold sweat beading on the back of my neck; my legs feel watery and boneless and…and so I let it go, jamming my hands into my pockets and shuffling my feet.

“I’m-- I’m sorry,” I mutter, jerking my head toward the door. “I mean, it sounded like you’ve got people over. Bad fucking timing to…to, you know, lose my shit or whatever, yeah?”

There’s a chorus of faint, muted voices from behind the door, and Marco smiles a little, watching me carefully. I can tell, in the hesitant way he speaks, that he thinks I’m gonna bolt the second he turns around, that I’m gonna lash out and then run, the way I did before.

“No,” he replies finally, “it’s okay, really. It’s just-- I invited a few friends over for dinner--”

“I’ll go,” I say immediately.

“Stay,” Marco says, a little frantic, at the same time.

For his sake, I pretend I didn’t see the way his arm jerked halfway up, reaching for me. But I know he knows I saw, with the way he flushes, and ducks his head.

He laughs, then, awkwardly.

“Just…listen, Jean.” The smile is still there, in his voice, but it’s sad, the way it always is-- when he’s with me, at least.

I wonder what that smile sounds like, looks like, when that sadness is gone.

When I’m gone.

“I know-- I know you hate me,” he says, softly, staring at the ground. “And I wish I could tell you that I’m sorry, but if I did, it wouldn’t be true. If you’re _here…_ well, it must be urgent.”

“I don’t hate you,” I blurt, blankly. “I mean it, I-- I don’t hate you. I just--”

“Jean,” Marco interrupts, shaking his head like he’s sparing me from some terrible endorsement, “it’s okay. You don’t have to explain.”

He doesn’t get it: it’s _not_ okay, I _have_ to explain-- but there’s so much in my head, so much anger and confusion and fear inside of me and it’s bottling up beneath my throat, overflowing bitterness collecting on my tongue.

“All I want--” I stammer. “I just-- I need to ask you some questions. And I need to tell you-- there’s something you need to know. I don’t know if you can fix it so don’t fucking ask, just tell me, just explain-- because if I could do this without you then I would, but I need-- I can’t--”

I can’t do this alone.

I don’t say it, but he hears it anyway.

“I know,” he says, his hand coming up to rest on my shoulder, thumb brushing the edge of my neck, and this time, I don’t try to move away. The landing is small, and he’s standing close enough that I can see the little flecks of green in his eyes that melt into chocolate brown, count the freckles that spill down his neck and past his collar. “I know,” he says, so fucking soft and so damn honest…

And something in me just snaps.

And I start talking.

 

\---

 

I’m not going to waste your time with that fucking _two kinds of people_ bullshit. There are billions of people, trillions of categories they all fit in, shifting, changing, all the time. _There are two kinds of people--_ that’s fucking crap.

That being said…

There are people who listen, and there are people who _understand._

Marco is the latter.

He’s quiet through the entirety of my stuttered, fragmented explanation. He doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t try and help me untangle the mess of facts and falsehoods. He lets me choke through Bertholdt’s absence, Levi’s deception, Eren’s sickness, and he doesn’t say a word.

A part of me is still fighting against this whole thing. Screaming for me to lock it all up inside of me, to lie to him, to say I don’t need him, to get back on the subway and hunker back down in Trost, in the Underground, where I belong. But every time my uncertainty begins to get the better of me, I think of Eren’s body, limp and unmoving and I think of the look on Reiner’s face when he’d seen Bertholdt’s photo. I think of the barely masked regret in Levi’s voice as he’d come clean.

I can’t stand back and watch as my family tears itself apart.

So I tell him.

I tell him everything I know and everything I need to know that I don’t already. Why Eren won’t wake up. Why the ground keeps dropping out from under me. Why every time I turn around, something is going wrong, why the people I’d give my life for are slipping through my fingers, why I can’t _stop_ it--

“Tell me--” I blurt, shifting my weight, trying to shake the weakness out of my knees. “Tell me why you never relapsed.”

The boosters are poison, they’re killing us, I get it. But there’s something that’s been tugging at the back of my mind since Levi’s confession.

“You boosted up with me,” I say. “I saw you shoot up and I gave you that needle myself-- I know how much I gave you, and I _know_ how strong that shit is-- so why weren’t you affected? Why aren’t you like…like Eren?”

He chews on his thumbnail, leaning back against the opposite wall. “There’s a few reasons, Jean. First of all, I only boosted up once.”

“But even then--”

He quiets me with a steady look. “And the other reason…is a long story, Jean.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Neither am I,” he says. “But you-- you have to trust me. Okay?”

I’m at the end of my rope already. I'm not so stubborn to think I have the luxury of choice. “Yeah,” I mutter. “Yeah, okay.”

“I wasn’t in Trost to cross you off a hit list,” he begins. “And I wasn’t in Trost to infiltrate the 104th. I know I’ll never be able to convince you that Erwin isn’t the bad guy-- but you have to understand that I wasn’t in Trost to hurt anyone-- I was there to find _you._ Or--” he corrects himself quickly, “someone like you. Someone with booster access.”

“You _wanted_ boosters?” 

The look on my face must be as surprised as I assume it is, because Marco chuckles. “I’m a student at the local college in Sina, but I work with one of Erwin’s scientists in my free time. Hanji Zoë-- that’s their name-- maybe you’ve heard of them…?”

I snort. Of course I fucking have, they’re Erwin’s second-in-command. There was a bit of nasty business with them a few years back when they came to Sina’s mayor with a plan to taint certain pipelines in Trost, to weed out gang activity. Of course it got around to us, and…well, when you fuck with the wrong people you get results, and Zoë's results came in the form of week-long riots. It was chaos, sure, with looters running rampant in the streets, store windows shattered and screams echoing through the streets even after the sun sank behind the city skyline.

But it sure as hell shut the Legion up. 

“We’ve been fighting gang warfare for years and nothing has worked, you know that as well as I do.” Either Marco doesn’t notice the sourness in my expression or he ignores it; either way, he continues. “Erwin's starting to think that the solution might not lie in actual combat, but in _science--_ and that’s where Hanji comes in. They’ve started studying boosters, and they recently discovered--”

“That they’re poison,” I interrupt, “I know, I told you I _know--”_

“They found a cure, Jean.”

I stop talking.

Stop thinking.

For a good five seconds.

“A-- a cure,” I croak finally. “W-when you say a cure, you mean a--”

“I mean an antidote,” he explains as I gape at him, bug-eyed. “An injection that counteracts booster toxins. Hanji needed a human test subject, and I volunteered. They gave me the injection, paid for my metro ticket…I was in Trost to get boosted, and report back to Hanji the next day. I was there to find someone who had access to what I needed-- but you picked _me._ Before I could pick you. You played into my hands, Jean. It was like it was the other way around, and I…”

Marco falters.

“I guess,” he says, softly, “I just got caught up.”

“What-- what if it hadn’t worked?” His gaze is too gentle and I struggle to cast it off of me, throwing myself into what he’s said and what it could mean-- for me, for _Eren--_ but I have to make sure. I won’t be played a second fucking time. “That’s bullshit, Marco-- are you telling me you were willing to throw yourself away for this?”

“For Erwin’s cause?” He smiles briefly, running a hand through his hair. “Why wouldn’t I? The 104th is your family, isn’t it? And the Legion is mine. We may be different in some aspects, but in that…in that, we’re the same.”

We’re not the same, not by a long shot. But before I can open my mouth Marco continues.

“You can walk away,” he says. “But I was just trying to do was the right thing. And so is Erwin, and the rest of the Legion…we’ve done terrible things, but so have you, and at the end of it all…this is bigger than you, Jean. This could save you, and your friend… _your_ family, Jean.” 

It’s bullshit. _Bullshit._ How do I know he’s telling the truth—but if he is…no, Jesus, it’s idealistic nonsense. It would be--

“I know what you’re thinking,” Marco murmurs. “That it’d be a betrayal, that I’m using you-- but I promise, I swear, the 104th has nothing to do with it. Your friend-- Eren--”

“You can save him?”

It doesn’t matter, I realize, whether it’s a betrayal or not. Whether he’s using me or not. If it saves Eren, I don’t care. If it gives me a reason to not give up, I don’t care, if it gives me a reason to keep moving, keep breathing--

He makes me want to keep breathing.

“It would be between you and me,” Marco says. “No other Legion members involved. Once a week: at The Wall, here, wherever. I give you the antidote, you find a way to get it to your friend. In return I’d need photo evidence of his condition over time. Write down anything you notice, anything you see change in the way he looks, his heartbeat before and after doses--”

I laugh a little, hoarsely. “You’re gonna need to write this shit down, there’s no way in hell that I’ll remember.”

“Jean,” he says, serious. “I won’t ever ask you to do anything you think is out of line. And I will never make you do something you don’t want to do.”

He’s much closer to me than he was a minute ago and I can’t remember when that happened. “Why--” I clear my throat. “Why are you doing this?” 

“I just-- I want to help,” Marco says, so ridiculously honest, and reaches forward to touch the back of my hand. “Jean, you can say no. I know you don’t like me. I know I don’t have anything to offer you but a _maybe_ and half a hope--”

“Yes.”

I’m done thinking, and he can’t stop. His eyes widen. “You’ll-- you’ll do it?”

“I’m in. I’ll do it, Marco, of course I’ll fucking do it--”

He looks like he’s at a loss, rubbing the back of his neck, studying the floor like everything he doesn’t understand is lying at his feet.

“Do you really think I hate you?” I ask, quietly, and his chin jerks up.

“Um,” he says, ears going pink. “Well, I mean, you threw me against a wall, Jean.”

The corner of my mouth twitches. “You _lied.”_

“I didn’t!” he splutters, “I just…left stuff out--”

He stops when he sees my grin.

“You know,” he says, swallowing hard. “Erwin doesn’t know.”

“Doesn’t…” I blink at the change in his tone, change in subject. “Doesn’t know about…me? Or--”

“No,” Marco bites his lip. “I mean, well…I turned in my reports. He knows I got boosted, he just…doesn’t know how I got the boosters in the first place, or…anything, really. I…”

He clears his throat.

“I’ve been done with the original job for a while,” he says, quietly. “The night in the alley, that…that was supposed to be it.”

I want to believe him. So much, so badly, and I shouldn’t.

His hand slides up my arm, rests at the base of my throat, in the crook of my neck.

“Jean,” he says, exhaling softly, and there’s something off about the way he says it, quickly, like he’s just trying to get it over with. 

But then he’s moving toward me, inch by inch, drawing closer-- and when I bring my fingers up to brush them over his cheek, he casts his gaze down, biting his lip.

“You know--” he begins, awkwardly. “We…I never meant for…” He takes a breath, eyes flickering down to meet mine, almost shyly. “Fucking you was never part of the plan,” he says at last.

The blunt words sound strange, coming out of his sweet mouth. 

“Jean?”

“H-huh?” I stutter.

“I was right, wasn’t I, about the others that you slept with. They never knew your name, did they?”

My throat tightens, and I don’t know why.

“Why did you tell me?” he whispers. “Out of all of them, why me?”

 _Don’t,_ I hear, echoing in the back of my head, the same voice that had cried out against telling him the truth, _don’t you dare. He’s a release, Jean, just a release--_

But he’s not.

I don’t know if he ever has been.

“Jean,” he repeats, biting down on the syllable like it’s stuck in his throat, looking at me in a way I’m afraid to name, and I slip both hands around to the back of his neck, and draw him forward.

He lets out a noise halfway between surprise and relief but he comes willingly, my hands on either side of his jaw, kissing him hard, rough, feeling him respond in kind with his fingers digging into my waist and angling my hips up to meet his and _this, yes, this is better, better than explanations, better than apologies and better than thinking--_

We’re both tired of thinking. 

There’s another chorus of laughter, of his friends’ voices, from inside, but I hardly hear them. My fingers are in Marco’s hair, Marco’s hands are slipping up underneath my shirt; the stairwell is small and dimly lit and I can still remember slamming him against the wall, my arm tight against his neck but now he’s leading me and it’s entirely different.

He’s taking control and I let him.

Let him press me back gently.

Let him hold me there.

He’s always been stronger than I expect him to be.

His mouth is warm, and wet, and so good. My eyelids have slipped closed on instinct but I open them as he draws back to catch his breath, eyes dipping down to watch the pulse in his throat race. When I nudge forward to press my lips against the heartbeat there; his head tips back, finger scraping against my ribs.

“Jean,” he says again, but it’s breathless, more of an exhale than a word this time, the sharp shards of uncertainty gone from his voice; his head dips down then and he’s kissing me again, hands slipping around to the small of my back. He keeps me against him, mouth opening over mine, tongue dragging hot and slow over my bottom lip, guiding me with long kisses and quick, sharp tastes of teeth on skin, bitingly sweet, the helpless noises he’s making cracking my chest open and coaxing the pain out because _yes_ and _this_ and--

And he is more, more than a release.

He’s always been more than a release because he’s _different,_ he looks at me _differently_ and he--

He makes me feel safe, and I don’t remember the last time I felt that way.

I could do this all night. I could let him kiss me until the sun rises, let him do anything he wants, whatever he wants, right here in a fucking stairwell, he makes me feel safe and I never want to feel anything else, but--

But there’s a high, feminine voice from behind the door, and it cracks like lightning.

“Bodt, are you _still_ out there?”

Marco jumps, flinching back, blinking hazily. “Crap,” he sighs, dipping his head to rest his forehead against mine while he struggles to regulate his breathing. “I-- I forgot they were-- I forgot they were still here, I just--”

“Marco?” The woman’s voice is a petty whine, growing louder as she draws closer to the landing and to the door. “Marlowe and I are bored in here by ourselves,” she coaxes, a razor edge to her words. “Who are you talking to, anyway, come back and _entertain_ us, we’re your guests, after all--”

“Hitch, _don’t--”_ The handle of the door turns and Marco twists, fast, as it swings open, shielding me with his body between her and the door.

She’s petite, and slender, with cropped, wavy blond hair to her jaw and a mischievous, dangerous curve to her thin mouth. “Who’s that?” she says, sweetly, standing on tiptoes to try and see over Marco’s shoulder. “Are you making friends without me, Marco?”

He smiles, but his shoulders tense. “I’m afraid so,” he says. “Sorry, Hitch.”

His voice is winded, his hair disheveled, his lips slightly swollen from where I’ve kissed him. I see her smirk widen and delight spark darkly in her quick, darting eyes and it makes me nervous, the way she drapes herself against the door frame, one hip cocked, studying Marco and me like she’s storing us away to use later.

This is a woman I don’t wanna cross. That’s for fucking sure. 

“I lost track of time,” Marco says, watching her simper at him and remaining completely composed all the same. “Go back inside, I’ll be there in a minute.”

“Oh,” she pouts, eyes glittering. “I _am_ hoping for an introduction--”

“Maybe another time,” Marco says, patiently.

“We’ve plenty of time now, darling.”

“Hitch,” Marco says, less patiently. “Back inside. Now.”

The woman-- Hitch-- quirks an eyebrow…and, to my surprise, backs down. “I suppose it’ll have to wait, then,” she huffs, flouncing back into the apartment. “Shame…he’s cute, honey.”

The door clicks shut and Marco turns back to me with wide, anxious eyes. 

“Oh, god, I’m sorry-- Hitch, she can be so--”

“It’s okay,” I tell him, slowing him down. “People are plenty more rude in the 104th, Marco-- and I got here at a bad time, you said it yourself.”

He opens his mouth, closes it, biting back the beginnings of sentences and teetering on the verge of words. But he shakes his head, at last, and runs one hand through his mussed hair.

"I'll go," I say, in the place of his silence.

“Or-- you could stay,” he blurts, so eager, so hopeful.

I shake my head. “Your friends are waiting. I should, I should go, I--”

He makes me stammer. He makes me laugh. I back away and he lets me, watching me with those stupid chocolate-brown eyes, deep as ever, so fucking pretty.

“When can I see you again?” he says, and my heart thuds in my chest.

“Tomorrow.”

“Wha-- already?”

“Tomorrow,” I repeat, mouth dry. “Just-- tomorrow, tomorrow night, yeah?”

He smiles at me, once, in a way I’ve never seen him smile before. He smiles all teeth and all light, a piece of the goddamn sun lighting up the corners of that dark landing, smiling like he’s caught-off-guard and he’s okay with that, smiling sincere, smiling _happy._

So that’s what it looks like, without the sadness there to pin it down.

“Tomorrow,” he says. “Be here at seven.”

That smile is stuck in my head like a song on repeat all the way back to Trost, and I don’t even fucking care.

If I could sing it out loud, I would.

 

\---

 

I walk into the 104th feeling with hope restored, heading toward Eren’s room like a man who’s found his maker. But like all good things, faith doesn’t stay pure for long.

I can glimpse the clean white bedsheets of Eren’s cot through the smudged window set into the top of the door. I’ve got one hand on the handle. I’ve barely slipped out of my jacket when I hear his voice: emotionless, flat, and when I glance over my shoulder he’s standing there with his arms across his narrow chest, jaw set like stone.

“Where were you?” he says.

“Connie,” I say, unease sparking in the back of my mind with the way he’s staring at me. “Yo, dude. What’s up?”

“Nothing.” His face is strangely blank; the sinking feeling in my gut grows. “I just wanna know. Where’d you go?” 

“The Wall.” The lie comes easy but I’ve known him since I was fourteen and I know he doesn’t fucking buy it.

“It’s not Saturday,” he replies.

Stay cool. Stay casual. You’re doing the right thing, there’s no reason to feel guilty.

“It doesn’t need to be Saturday for me to need a drink,” I snort.

He shakes his head, slow. “You never go without me.”

“I needed to be alone, okay? Look, if it’s Levi asking, you can tell him to go fuck himself--”

“It’s not Levi asking,” Connie says; I see a muscle twitch in his jaw. “It’s me. Why go to The Wall?”

I turn to face him fully. “What do you want, man?”

“Just answer the question.”

“Jesus-- just lay _off,_ Springer!” My heartbeat starts thudding in my throat, my palms starting to slicken with sweat. “The fuck is this, a fucking interrogation? Leave me the hell alone, I don’t fucking need you prying--”

Connie’s eyes flash, but before he can reply, the door to Eren’s room swings open, and Armin wheels through, holding the door open with his forearm as he steers into the hallway.

“Oh,” he says when he sees us: Connie tensed into himself with hands curled into fists, me mid-way through snarling out my own defense. “Something wrong?”

“He fucking--” Connie jerks his chin at me. “He thinks he can just _disappear_ for a couple of hours, like it doesn’t matter that everything’s gone to hell here--”

“What I do on my own time is my own fucking business--”

“Jean went to The Wall,” Armin says coolly. “Told me so before he left.”

Armin Arlert might possibly be the most perfect being in existence in this moment. 

I don’t think I’ve ever appreciated him as much as I do right now. “I-- I told you, dude,” I say, glancing toward Connie. “Jesus Christ.”

“Anything else?” Armin asks, and Connie scuffs the tip of his ratty tennis shoe on the floor, shifting awkwardly.

“Nah,” he mutters at last. “I…sorry, man.”

“Good. Eren hasn’t gotten any better but you can go see him, if you want.” Armin attempts a half-smile, shrugging helplessly, and pushes away from us, wheels of his chair squeaking slightly as he rattles down the hallway. “They say sometimes people in comas can hear you,” he calls over his shoulder, before he turns the corner. “Might wanna give him some good news, Jean, if you have any.”

I turn back toward the door, yanking it half-open, when Connie speaks again.

“You didn’t go to The Wall,” he says quietly. “Don’t fucking lie to me, Sasha was there for a pick-up and she didn’t see you. Where did you go, Jean?”

I don’t even bother turning. “You don’t need to know, so drop it.”

“Do you-- fucking hell, do you not _trust_ me?” His voice trembles, just slightly. “We’re all fucked, Jean, but we’re still friends-- just _tell_ me--”

“Drop. It.”

I move away from him and let the door slam shut behind me; he doesn’t try and follow. I know Connie doesn’t deserve it, that he thinks he’s doing good by asking. But I can’t risk anything on letting him in.

In front of me Eren lies beneath the sheets, perfectly still, like some kind of pale, drained statue. There’s IVs hooked into him that thread from his arm to bags of thin fluids in a vain attempt to sustain his vitals.

Maybe Connie’s right. Maybe we’re all fucked. But I’m gonna fix him, I swear to god. I’m gonna save him, me and Marco, we can.

We’re gonna save everyone.


	7. Stressed Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We used to play pretend, give each other different names,  
> We would build a rocket ship and then we'd fly it far away,  
> Used to dream of outer space but now they're laughing at our face,  
> Saying, "wake up, you need to make money."
> 
> \- Twenty One Pilots, Stressed Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: Levi's actions in this chapter can definitely be defined as abusive. Please take care of yourself and your mental health, and don't read further if verbal, emotional, or physical abuse is a trigger for you.

The 104th is back to its unsettling quiet the next morning.

I find myself thinking that maybe Connie’s right—or at least has a point—about whether our trust in each other is as strong as it used to be. It’s apparently not just me who’s been disappearing, and so in that regard, at least, he’s almost justified.

Krista and Ymir have stuck to each other lately; I’m lucky if I can get a word out of either of them. Reiner has been skipping out on meals and pick-ups, which isn’t surprising, considering that our attempts to communicate with the Titans and find Bertholdt have both been unsuccessful. But even Annie has been going missing, coming back late with dark circles under her pale eyes and holes in her jeans. 

I catch her sneaking back in on my way to check in on Eren. She’s at least subtler about it than I am, sliding through a side window instead of coming through the front door. It’s just her bad luck that the window slides shut on her while she’s halfway through. 

The two things that Annie hates most in this world are losing and looking stupid, and she’s definitely trying to wriggle her way out of the second one when I find her. “Jean,” she hisses as I smirk, “get me the _fuck_ outta here—”

“What’s the magic word?” 

“If you leave me for Levi to find, I’ll gut you with a dull knife,” she snaps, eyes slanting cat-like, and for a moment I do actually believe her. She’s scary when she’s mad. 

“You’re welcome,” I declare, lifting the sill and allowing her to slip free. She drops to the ground and is back on her feet in two seconds, arching a little and rubbing at her spine. With her composure back and her hackles smoothing back down, she’s once again her cool-faced and passive self.

“Rough night,” I note as the window slides shut; she frowns, but doesn’t bother with a reply. Her jacket is torn to hell and bruises and dried blood crust over her collarbones and neck. Her shrug tells me she knows what she looks like, and that she doesn’t care much. “It’s been a while since you went looking for a fight,” I say.

“Yeah, and it’s been a while since someone got kidnapped,” she answers curtly. “But shit happens, right?”

“Shit happens,” I agree cautiously. 

I don’t wanna parrot Connie’s paranoia back at her like a regular hypocrite, and I know that Annie really can take care of herself, but I’m honestly curious— and a little worried— all the same. 

The idea that the 104th is falling apart has begun to gnaw at the edge of my mind, and I hate it.

“Hey, Annie,” she’s already started heading toward the showers and I jog a little to catch up, “you okay?” 

That’s a dumb question, and it gets me a _please-eat-your-own-shit_ look in response. 

“I just…” It’s too much to catch her arm, because Annie’s a look-don’t-touch person, but I do lightly rest my hand on her shoulder, just to get her to look at me. “You don’t have to carry any of this alone,” I tell her. “You know that, right? That we’re a team, the 104th?”

“A team,” she repeats flatly, shrugging away from me, her mask unwavering. “Whatever you say, Jean.”

 _“Annie.”_ Something in my voice makes her stop. “I mean—we’re _family.”_

She softens. 

Just a little. 

I see something in her expression catch, or change, or…something. And she looks like she’s going to—to break, or talk, or…for just a moment. 

And then the mask is back. 

“I know,” she says. “We always have been.” 

_But is that enough?_

I hear her unspoken question hang through the air all the way back to Eren’s room.

 

\---

 

I find refuge from the quiet, empty halls in Eren’s room, as I find myself doing more often these days. It’s good to just be able to see him, even if he’s unresponsive, and it’s comforting, sometimes, to watch the rise and fall of his chest and know that _he’s here, he’s still here._

Armin is there when I arrive—he hardly leaves anymore—holding Eren’s hand and paging through a book. He looks up when I come in with a smile that’s more likely faked than not.

“How’s he doing?” 

Armin digs his fingers into his eyes, his voice tired. “About the same. Maybe a little worse, but…that could just be my imagination.” 

I ease into a chair beside the two of them. “Reading anything interesting?”

“Yes,” he admits, flipping it over to show me the cover, “but it’s not for me. I’ve been reading to him.” 

To my surprise, the book isn’t a part of his collection of normal stuff: the gritty, dirty novels he’s always squinting at. It’s not _Heart of Darkness_ or _Things Fall Apart_ or _As I Lay Dying,_ but one of those epic classics— _Dune._

“He’s so weird,” Armin says, playing with the dog-eared corner of the book as he glances down at Eren. “He hates reading, mostly, but he’s always had this soft spot for science fiction. He has bits and pieces of the Bene Gesserit teachings memorized.” 

“I don’t know…” I shake my head. “I’ve never read it.” 

_“I must not fear,”_ he quotes, almost immediately. _“Fear is the mind killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear, permit it to pass over me and through me…”_ he sighs. “It goes on. It’s a nice litany, and I just thought maybe it’d help, saying it to him, you know? _I must not fear…”_ he scoffs, then laughs, humorless. “It’s so like him, isn’t it? I always figured that bit would be his favorite.” 

It’s like some kind of painful whiplash, looking at the way he’s looking at Eren. I swallow to clear the lump in my throat.

“Hey,” Armin blinks suddenly, through a fog, turning to face me, “how did it go, with your Legion contact?” 

It occurs to me that I could lie to him, tell him that I’d learned nothing about Boosters or the Legion. But I see the book in Armin’s lap and the white-knuckled way he’s linked his fingers through Eren’s and I know that I can’t bear to keep it from him. 

“Armin,” I say carefully. “I—I think I’ve found a way out.” 

Armin’s expression changes slowly as I explain, the downturned creases in his too-young face easing into a smooth eagerness. When I’m finished his focus on Eren has lifted; he’s gripping his wheelchair’s armrests tightly instead, eyes bright. 

“When will you have the antidote?” he asks, hopeful excitement bubbling over into his words. It’s the most animated I can remember seeing him in a long time. Armin’s happiness bursts out, contagious; warmth blossoms in my chest, knowing I’ve help put that smile there—a real one. “Are you getting it soon? I—would you let me help? _Fuck,_ I wish I could go with you—” 

“I’m picking it up tonight,” I assure him. “Can you cover for me again?”

His smile widens, stretching muscles that have been frozen in frowns for days on end. “I’m your man, Jean, you know I am.”

I can’t help but feel lighter hearing it. Despite the circumstances…it feels nice to have him back again, playing off of each other the way we always used to.

“Don’t stay up in Sina for too long,” he warns me. “Levi’s talking about meeting with everyone around ten tonight.”

We say our good-byes and he’s back to _Dune,_ flipping through until he’s found where he last left off, caressing Eren’s hand again and reading aloud, now—maybe to Eren, maybe to himself, I don’t know.

 _“When fear has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path,”_ he recites, and I can still hear the smile in his voice. _“Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain.”_

 

\--- 

 

Maybe the path to Marco’s apartment is getting a little too well-worn, but the fucks I give are heading toward the negatives. 

And why would I care if I’m spending too much time with him than I should? I’m flying so fucking high that I might as well be boosted; I have Eren’s salvation within reach, my friendship with Armin tying itself back together, and Marco—

And Marco. 

I’m climbing to the top of the world but I _still_ feel that damned swoop in my belly when I get to his flat. What was that phrase that Armin said Eren liked?

_I must not fear._

I rap my knuckles against the door with all the confidence I can muster. 

“Hi!” I hear him call from inside. “Just wait a second!”

When the door swings open, the strength that I’ve built up inside of me drains away at my feet.

And I’m staring.

 _Gaping._

“You look,” I croak. “Nice.” 

Nice. _Nice._

He’s wearing a pale blue button-up stark against his chocolate-caramel skin, sleeves creased to his elbow and dark slacks that have got to be tailored because they fit him too damn well and Jesus— _he’s wearing a tie—_

And I’m wearing ratty jeans and a tank top, with the old leather jacket that Reiner gave me when he grew out of it four years ago hanging off my shoulders smelling like a wet dog.

He looks a little embarrassed when he notices my bug-eyed stare. “Well,” he says, shrugging shyly, “I thought I’d try and, you know, see what I had stuffed in the back of my closet…” He trails off, tugs on his tie, and there’s a sick feeling rolling in my stomach that I hate, and it has nothing to do with the fact that he looks like he’s walked out of a fucking magazine. 

He looks like he’s going _out,_ and here I am, wanting to push him inside again. 

It’s the same kind of uncomfortable tug-of-war in my belly that I felt during the dinner party that I’d accidentally interrupted: the burst of realization that _he does actually exist_ outside of the hours that I spend with him. Outside of quick lays and getting high. He has a whole life that I don’t know about, maybe a whole different side to him I’ve never stuck around to see. 

He has friends. Hobbies. He has his work with Erwin and Hanji; he has his studies. Things to do, people to see, other people—

Maybe…quick lays with other people. Getting high with other people.

The turn of my gut sours slowly. Jealousy’s an awfully mean-spirited bitch, and not one that I’d like to get acquainted with, but I can’t help but feel a little nauseous at the idea of someone else. _Who’s he dressed up for,_ I wonder— is it Hitch? Is that the kind of person he’s into, snarky and quick-witted and…confident? 

I’m not like Hitch.

Not at all.

Could I? I mean, if that’s what he likes, could I be like that? Would he— 

“Jean?” Marco says, peering at me, waving one freckled hand in front of my face. “Still with me?” 

“Yeah—I, yeah, sorry.” I clear my throat. _Just get the antidote and get the hell outta here. He’s got somewhere to be and someone to be with and you’re only holding him up._

“I made dinner,” Marco says, abandoning his explanation and holding the door open a little wider. “Do you…want to come in?” 

He’s smiling so damn wide that my chest hurts. 

“It’s fine,” I mutter. “Don’t wanna make you late.” 

“Make me late?” he repeats, brow creasing. 

“Well, you’re going _out,”_ I gesture violently. “Aren’t you?”

He blinks rapidly. “I…no? Unless—I mean, I wasn’t planning on it, anyway—”

“Well—Jesus!” I don’t mean to speak so sharply but the words come out whip-like. “Why the fuck are you dressed like you’re on a date, then?”

He looks like he’s going to laugh. 

_If he laughs, I’ll fucking lose it._

“Jean,” he says patiently, failing entirely to hide his grin. “I’m dressed like I’m on a date because I _am_ on a date. Or I will be, if you’ll stop shouting at me and come inside.” 

_I—_

_Wait._

_He—_

_Did he just—_

“I’m not—” I stammer, something taking ahold of my heart and _squeezing_ as a burning heat creeps slowly up over my ears and into my cheeks. “I’m not shouting, did you just…ask me out?” 

“I made dinner,” Marco repeats. He reaches out and takes my hand. 

_You smooth fucker!_

“I’m not—I’m not dressed nice, or anything—”

“I think you look fine.”

“Y-you—you couldn’t have given me a goddamn warning—?”

“Come inside,” Marco says, running his thumb over my knuckles. 

“Marco—” I blurt, and force the words out, jumbled and quick. “Listen, I haven’t—I haven’t _done this._ Ever.” 

He just looks at me. “You don’t have to say yes.” 

“No, you don’t understand, I—” the blush is burning down into my neck now. “I don’t know _how.”_

“Then why don’t you come inside,” he replies, “and we can see how it goes.”

I hesitate, for a half-second. 

And then I’m across the threshold and the door’s falling closed behind me. 

 

\---

 

There’s music. Soft. Acoustic. Very indie. 

And there are…candles. 

_Oh, fuck me, fucking hell—_

I’d be lying if I said that I’m not— _secretly_ —reveling in this.

But I’m also still flushing. I can’t seem to stop. I can see the headlines now: _Local Gangbanger Wooed by Suave College Boy; Dies of Embarrassment._

There are two small speakers hooked up to an expensive looking, polished turntable. The record on it spins lazily. I think the song might be something romantic but I’m too busy trying not to trip over my own feet and I can’t focus long enough to really tell.

_Kill me. Someone fucking kill me, this is so fucking—_

My mind settles on something close to _adorable._

The apartment is as nice as I remember—but my mind’s sharper and I’m more sober than I was the last time we were here, and I take it all in again. It’s smaller than I’d thought, but cozy. He’s got a new couch set up in the living room; a softer looking green sofa has replaced the one we’d made out on. Marco leads me past it and we turn into the tiny merged kitchen-dining room, dark wooden floor beneath our feet and light blue wallpaper wrapped around the walls, dotted with little white flowers. 

The table is set for two. 

_More candles._

At least he doesn’t push my chair in for me when I sit down. 

He smiles at me from across the table, the gentle scratching of the record soft in the background. “I hope you like it,” he says, reaching forward and dishing some of the meal onto my plate before handing it back to me. “I’m not that great of a cook, but…well, I tried. And I had some leftovers from when Marlowe and Hitch were here, so…”

There’s salad, and fruit, and—

“Steak?” I have no idea. 

“Lamb,” he corrects me. “Oh, and that’s rosemary sprinkled across the top—it goes really well, I promise.” 

If the heat in my face has faded, it surges back now, scorching. _End me._

“You—” he stops suddenly, chewing on his bottom lip. “You eat meat, right?” 

I nod, make what I hope is a disinterested sound. “Hmm. Uh. Yeah?” _Of course?_

“Oh, good,” he’s back to smiling, “I would’ve felt bad if you were vegetarian—cause there’s chicken in the salad, too. Hitch eats fish, but she doesn’t really like to eat other kinds of meat, so whenever she comes over, I have to remember…” 

I tune him out accidentally. I’m so hyper-aware of everything I’m doing. Is it rude to chew with your mouth open on a date, is that a thing? Isn’t there a special fork for salad or something. What the hell do I do with my napkin, put it on my fucking lap? Fucking _Christ,_ is that how loud I usually sound when I swallow?

“Jean?” Marco asks, looking puzzled. _Shit, did he say something?_

“Sorry—what?” 

He peers at me, concern in his eyes. “I…are you okay?”

I briefly consider telling him no. 

But the lamb is sticking in my throat. He’s gone and put this all together— _for me_ — and here I am fidgeting in my seat like I’m sitting on nails and trying to figure out how to make this...not weird. 

“I—” I stammer, my eyes shifting around the room. “I, uh…yeah. This is great. I just—well. It’s a lot. But it’s nice.” 

I’m pretty sure my voice squeaked on the last word. I doubt I sound very genuine. Maybe scared out of my fucking mind. Definitely not genuine.

But to my surprise, Marco doesn’t look disappointed. I know he doesn’t believe me in the way that his eyebrows quirk up, but he just smiles and motions to my plate.

“Hey,” he says. “Stop staring at your napkin like it’s going to come alive and hurry up and finish eating, okay? I’ve got something really cool to show you.”

 

\---

 

 _Files._

“They’re…files.”

I’m on the couch, the huge stack of them on my lap where Marco’s dropped them. They’re thick and manila. 

Marco’s across the room, fiddling with the turntable, “do you like Johnny Cash?” 

I ignore the question. “Marco, what’s in these?”

His grin is sunlight. “Oh, I wouldn’t know. Maybe if you open them…”

The first page is blank, all for the red, all caps _TOP SECRET_ spelled across the top; my eyes widen in surprise. 

“Am I—” I look up at him, scrutinizing him carefully. “Marco…am I _supposed_ to be looking at this?” 

His voice is absolutely honey, lowering a new record onto the player and glancing back at me with big innocent eyes. “Looking at what, Jean?” he asks sweetly, and that’s all the encouragement I need to flip to the next page. 

I’m looking at a map: neat, spidery lines, outlining streets and buildings. I examine it a little carelessly, eyes flicking over it without giving it much thought, and I’m about to turn to the next page when one of the street names jumps out at me, and something occurs to me. 

What I’m looking at is—

Well. 

“This is a map of _Trost.”_

I mean…it sure looks like it. 

Marco lowers the needle onto the record and starts playing with the volume, a song I don’t recognize, Cash’s voice scratchy and deep. “Oh,” Marco says, nonchalantly. “Is it?” 

“I know Trost like the back of my hand, why would I need—” I blink rapidly, suddenly. “Why are you giving this to me?” 

“I don’t know,” Marco replies, straightening up, “why do you think I’m giving it to you?” 

When I look at him his dark eyes are serious. The record warbles in the silence, _“just like a paperback novel, the kind the drugstores sell.”_

Then he’s sitting next to me, bumping his knee against mine in a way that I’m not sure is accidental, and traces the lines with the tip of his finger. “Jean,” he says, his free hand finding mine as his fingertip taps over the map. The space between us is filled with a breathlessness that hadn’t been there just a few moments ago. “Whose territory is this?” 

“Whose territory?” I repeat. “It’s…oh.”

He smiles slowly. 

I feel a little faint. “Oh my god,” I say weakly. _“Marco.”_

“Yes.”

“Is this the Titan’s…base?” 

“Yes,” he says, and the intensity melts into a dizzying rush of incredulity, disbelief and _elation—_

“It’s cool,” Marco says, grinning at the stunned, slack-jawed way I’m staring at him. “Right?” 

_“Cool,”_ I echo, _“cool_ —do you know what this _means—?”_

“Of course I do,” he says. “That’s why I’m giving it to you.” 

I tear through the rest of the file with a vicious hunger. There are names. Photos. More maps— _how?_

“Years of surveillance,” Marco explains when I ask him directly, shrugging. “You don’t think we don’t have people watching you, too?” 

Unsettling but not surprising. “As long as you’re not watching me undress,” I say dryly. 

“Well,” Marco replies smartly, eyes sparking with something tipping toward mischievousness, “it’s not like I’d be seeing anything I haven’t seen before,” and I shove his head down as he bursts into giggles. 

The files scatter as he yelps, trying to elbow me off of him, grabbing my wrists and wrestling me back. We scuffle for a second longer and I pin him to the cushions but then he’s hooking his leg behind my waist and flipping us, threading his fingers through mine as I fall back, laughing. 

I catch my breath, gazing up at him. 

“Jean,” he says, winded, laughter still ringing in his voice, “you know why I gave you the map, right? You know why I’m…why I’m helping you?” 

I have no fucking clue. 

“I—yeah,” I say. “Of course.” 

His grin widens until my chest is aching. “You know,” he says, “sometimes I think about how I went to The Wall on a Saturday, that first night. And how—I could have gone any other day, really, but—but if I had, I wouldn’t have met you. And I’m—” 

He ducks his head and kisses me, in the space where his words should be. 

“I’m just glad it was you,” he whispers, eyes lit up with the same kind of warmth that I feel echoing in my chest. “I’m just—really glad, Jean.” 

He dips down to press his mouth against mine again and I curl into him, my fingers in his hair and my knees pressing into his hips, more than content to lose myself in the gentle way he cradles my face in his hands. But he’s got other plans, easing off of me despite my complaints, and padding over to the TV to fish out two controllers and a dusty PS3. 

He tosses me one of the controllers with a silly little smirk and we crash together on the couch with FIFA, settling against each other and shit-talking like a couple of high school kids. 

Eventually he sinks back against the cushions, and his legs settle in my lap, and the record spins on, and on, and on.

 _“A movie queen,”_ Johnny Cash quavers, _“to play the scene of bringing all the good things out in me—_

_But for now love, let's be real.”_

 

\---

 

One minute, I’m weightless.

Fearless. 

I’ve got his antidote and copies of the files in the backpack slung over my shoulders. I let him put my number in his phone, and I let him walk me down the stairs to the apartment entrance.

I let him kiss me good-bye. 

“When can I see you again?” He’s the one who asks this time, but the question is becoming routine. 

“Tomorrow’s Saturday,” I say breezily. 

Marco smiles. “Meet you at The Wall?” 

“Meet me at The Wall,” I confirm. “I—”

He kisses me. “Sorry,” he says when he breaks away, “what were you gonna say?” 

I’m tugging him back toward me, “Nevermind.” His mouth opens under mine. A woman passes us heading toward the elevator, her keys jangling, and I catch the stink-eye she sends our way before the doors close behind her. 

Marco leans back; I can see his pulse beating hard in his throat. “Technically,” he says, “I’ve already kissed you good-bye.”

“I know,” I groan, “and I gotta go, the 104th’s got some kinda meeting and I’m _late—”_

“Then _go—”_

I kiss him again, quickly. 

“Jean,” he says, trying not to smile. “Won’t you be in trouble?”

I’m weightless, fearless, _I don’t care_ — I kiss him, “I don’t care.”

“Go,” Marco says, laughing, pushing me back. “Go!” he insists when I reach for him again. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“At The Wall,” I remind him. 

“At The Wall,” he assures me.

I waltz out to the curb of the sidewalk, the door clicking shut behind me, _weightless._

But it’s just for a minute.

And then that minute ends. 

Something catches my eye as I start toward the subway, out of the corner of my peripherals. A smudge, a shadow, melting into the light for half a second before disappearing again. 

I squint, caught off-guard. _Nothing_.

Trying to throw the wariness off of my shoulders I turn, walking quick and uneasy. 

And I hope that the reflected footsteps behind me is just an echo.

 

\---

 

I know something is wrong the minute I step into the meeting room. 

Every chair is occupied but mine, and Eren’s. Annie’s there, even Reiner— _Armin._

Armin hasn’t been to a meeting in—

In over a year.

Each of them turns their gazes toward me as I move toward my chair and I freeze immediately with the weight of their eyes on me. Levi himself, sitting at the head of the table, stares at me without feeling, expression ice-cold, his jaw tight. 

_I feel like I’ve walked into a funeral._ But before I can crack out a joke to break the heavy silence, Levi speaks through thin, bloodless lips. 

“Good. You’re here. Sit.”

I do.

Then I clear my throat. 

“Sorry I’m late—”

Levi’s eyes flash and my words stick in my throat. “Jean,” he says, “shut the fuck up.”

My palms begin to sweat.

“Yo,” _fuck, why do I always wanna laugh when I’m nervous now is not the fucking time,_ “what’s the big—”

Levi doesn’t lose his temper often. He’s more often than not better at scaring the shit out of people when he’s quiet: voice low but seething, dark-eyed and hissing. 

But here and now his hands are slamming down on the table with a bang and he’s all whirlwind anger and stormy words, and I shrink back, feeling like a child again, feeling the same kind of electric terror that would course through me when I was young. 

The fear is worse when his storm is directed toward me. 

_“Shut up,”_ he thunders. No one else at the table reacts, staring down at the table or staring at me—“you stay _quiet,_ boy, and fucking listen—this is how this is going to go. I am going to ask you the questions, and you are going to tell me the truth, or so fucking help me—” His eyes are wild. “This will _not_ end well for you if you try to fucking cross me, you hear?” 

My hands are shaking. 

_“Answer me.”_

I can hardly hear my own voice. “Yessir.” 

“Good.” The rage retracts momentarily but I can still see it, roiling darkly behind the mask of his unsteady calm. “First question. Where were you?” 

Armin’s eyes flash up to meet mine and I see him shake his head a perceptible degree, pity and desperation mixing in his face. 

_What does that mean? He never would have turned me in—_

But he’s looking away from me, now, gaze fixed on his hands, twisting in his lap.

What the fuck do I say? Why shouldn’t I just lie? Only Armin knew I was going to Sina, unless—

“I’m waiting,” Levi snarls. 

Unless. 

Connie’s not looking at me, either. But unlike Armin…there’s not a single ounce of pity in his face. 

“You…followed me?” My voice cracks. “You—you _tailed_ me?” 

Connie grits his teeth. I see the muscles work in his cheek, in his temple. 

I want to throw up.

“Sina,” I croak, still staring at Connie. “I was in Sina.”

I feel the air in the room thicken, a collective hostility rising as the silence of the friends I’ve grown up with is broken by soft murmurs and exhales. Mikasa sighs, almost inaudibly; Annie’s eyes widen an imperceptible fraction. 

“Doing what.” The contorted disgust on Levi’s face tells me that he already knows the answer. 

“Levi—” 

_“Doing what.”_

I turn to the rest of the 104th. “Please,” I say, trying to keep my voice from quavering. “It’s not what you think. _He’s_ not what you think—”

 _“He’s Legion!”_ Levi roars. 

“Armin,” I gasp, “tell them, tell them what I told you this morning—” 

“You don’t report to him, you report to _me!”_ Levi’s chair screeches back; he stands, unfurling, bearing down on me. “You don’t _take Legion info,_ you find your own!”

“He gave me—he gave me this—” I’m pleading—with him, with all of them, dumping the maps and antidote out of my bag, “look, _look,_ we can save Bertholdt, and Eren, I swear to god, he only wants to help, he’s _good—”_

“Yeah?” Levi paces toward me, lean and fierce and unraveling in front of my eyes, and I flinch backward automatically. “Maybe he is, but we’re not. _You’re not—_ grow the fuck up, Jean, look around you!” 

_I already have,_ I want to say. _I have, and I saw what you didn’t want me to and I got scared—_

Levi jerks his hand up, gestures. “Out,” he says, and I think he’s telling me to beat it until I see the rest of the 104th pushing back their chairs, glances mingling between distrust and sympathy as they pass by, without a word. 

 

\---

 

When I was eight years old and Eren was seven, the two of us tumbled into the meeting room without thinking. 

It was off-limits to us, young as we were, but we were in the middle of some game at the time, shooting each other down with finger guns and imaginary bullets, and the last thing on our minds was whether or not our new playhouse was restricted. 

We hadn’t thought anyone would come in. 

We’d been underneath the table already when the door creaked opened and so there was no need to hide, but I had smiled when I'd realized that it was Levi. I’d started to crawl out into the open; Eren had held me back. Maybe he better understood what was going to happen; maybe he just didn’t want to get in trouble. Either way, we stayed under the table, and we watched Levi’s boots pace back and forth, back and forth.

He stopped after a moment, paused. 

Then started screaming. 

It was red-faced fury, the soft velvet voice we were used to handsome-turned-ugly. He started tearing through the room, the path behind him a wreck of scattered chairs, and Eren and I huddled together, clutching tightly to each other, our breath coming quick and frightened, our eyes big and wet with tears while the howl of his voice ripped the breath from our lungs, his torrent breaking us like boughs, like branches.

When it was over Levi had righted one of the chairs he’d knocked flat, collapsed into it with a weary sigh, and said _come on out, you little brats._

It had obviously been a show that we shouldn’t have been allowed to witness, and we crept out expecting his wrath. But he’d set Eren on his knee and had tousled my hair, started to recite our favorite story of him, where he’d stolen a Legion’s officer’s car and parked it front of an Underground brothel, single-handedly ruining his reputation. 

Eren had been laughing after a while. But I could never get past the look on Levi’s face. He looks the same, now, leaning against the table with his palms splayed flat, black hair falling over closed eyes…tired. 

Just exhausted.

“I’m giving you a choice,” Levi says faintly. The anger has drained away. “There’s no compromise here: it’s us or him, Jean.”

I want to tell him it’s _not._ It’s not black and white like that, nothing is. There’s outliers. There’s exceptions. 

There’s Marco. 

“You have his number?” Levi asks suddenly. 

I nod numbly.

“Give me your phone.”

“Levi,” I whisper. 

“Give it to me.”

I hand it over. 

He drops it on the ground. 

Then pulls his pistol out of its holster and pulls the trigger, twice, in quick succession, putting two bullets through the cracked screen. The phone shatters, glass and metal exploding from the frame as it jerks like a dead thing; I recoil, cringing, my hands flying up to block the small pieces of shrapnel.

Levi puts the pistol away.

“There,” he says, unshaken. “That’s better, isn’t it.”

I feel stretched thin. 

Just a shadow of a person, nobody to anyone but a pawn to the 104th, _is this what I’ll be for the rest of my life?_

Alone with a death wish, is this what I signed up for? 

“I’ll take these,” Levi says, eyes flickering down to the antidote and maps. “Just in case you were getting any bright ideas. And you’re not allowed out of the base unless Connie’s with you. Understand?” 

I hate him for it. I hate him for everything. I jerk my head once, a nod, but he sees the look on my face, and it gives him pause, at least. 

“Jean.”

I meet his eyes reluctantly. 

“I’m sorry,” he says.

And my own anger boils over the fear.

“You lying, heartless _fuck—”_ My voice is trembling and I’m swerving toward him, my arm jerking up I wanna hurt him I wanna _hit him—_

I probably would have, if he hadn’t been expecting it. 

He catches my wrist and stops the blow, twisting my arm into an unnatural angle until I’m wincing, biting down hard on my lip to keep from crying out.

“Listen to me,” Levi says, and despite the fact that he could break my arm if he pushed it back another inch his voice is still uncharacteristically soft, “I know how hard this is.” 

I try to jerk out of his grip but he’s stronger than me and it only hurts more. “Don’t you _dare_ tell me that you know, you bastard, you could never fucking understand—”

Something gleams in Levi’s eyes, unfamiliar and strange. “You’re the one who doesn’t understand!” he snaps. “Believe me, I _know—”_

I’m so angry, so tired. _God, the last thing I want is to cry in front of him—_

But Levi lets go of my wrist, and then his arm is around my shoulder and my head is dropping onto his chest. “Let him go,” he says roughly. “You did good, kid, you did good, now let him go.” 

I don’t understand; I don’t know what he’s telling me. Maybe that I’m forgiven. Maybe that he’s proud of me.

I wish he could be proud of me for something else. 

“It’ll be okay,” he says roughly. “Maybe it’s not now, but it will be, I promise, I know, just remember you’re where you belong, Jean. You’re home.”

And he doesn’t let me go until I can breathe easy again, holding me up with his arm around my shoulder in a way that’s both possessive and relieved and I think, exhaustedly, that he’s right. 

At least I’m home.


End file.
